The Things We Lost in the Fire
by CrazyKater
Summary: *Slash* A modern day re-imagining of Starsky and Hutch. A tale of secrets, Simon Marcus, and Fate. PARTS ONE & TWO COMPLETE as of 11/30/17. PART THREE begins at Chapter 59.
1. Prologue

**The Things We Lost in the Fire: Part One**

* * *

" _Monsters are real and ghosts are real, too. They live inside us and sometimes they win."_

 _-Stephen King_

 _"I met a woman, she had a mouth like yours. She knew your life. She knew your devils and your deeds. And she said, "Go to him, stay with him if you can, but be prepared to bleed.'"_

 _-Joni Mitchell_

* * *

The hospital hallway was white and sparsely filled.

A few scattered nurses moved room to room, completing rounds before returning to their station at the end of the corridor. Sitting in an uncomfortable chair, Hutch paid them little mind, his eyes focused on the closed door across the hall. Starsky was in that room, as was Dobey, two nurses, and a doctor. An on-call psychologist was sure to follow as soon as his partner came enough out of his terror-stricken sedated state to really talk about what happened.

 _How the hell were they ever going to talk about what happened?_

Hutch wasn't allowed in the room; his partner didn't want him there. Starsky cried in fear when he saw Hutch, screamed in terror when he touched him, shrieked in panic when he tried to hold him.

Sucking in a shaky breath Hutch turned his gaze to the floor, desperately trying to ignore the blood marking his hands. Though his clothes are clean, his hands are bloody. His fingertips are stained with red dried freckles—something he's certain now that no one else can see. He washed his hands four times since arriving at the hospital—infinite times since first discovering the stains—yet, somehow they just _won't_ come clean.

He doesn't know how long he sat there, before Dobey finally emerged from Starsky's room. Taking a deep breath, the large man lingered in place, his hand rubbing exhaustedly at his face as the other still gripped the doorknob.

"How is he?" Hutch asked, though he was certain he didn't want to know.

Kept in darkness, Starsky had been put through hell. Beaten, tortured in ways Hutch didn't want to think about. And when he had finally found him, his naked body covered in blood. No, not covered, _immersed_ —dripping with dark oozing liquid, the quantity of which couldn't have all belonged to him. Closing his eyes against the vivid memory, Hutch bit back a groan. But he failed to suppress the guilt settling in his chest or the haunting memory sound of Starsky's tortured screams as they echoed in his head.

 _"Don't!"_ Starsky sobbed, his eyes wide with terror as he pressed himself against the wall. _"Don't touch me. P-please, Hutch, I can't stand anymore. I can't do it anymore!"_

Watching Hutch warily, Dobey sat heavily next to him, pursing his lips and staring at his open palms. He doesn't have any comforting news, and it's too late to justify behavior with kindness and platitudes. Though he's certain none of this should have happened, he can't understand how any of it could have been changed.

"Starsky," he said eventually. "Will be alright." But the words are forced, his strength feigned as though he is struggling to convince himself of the words.

"Yeah."

"You should go home and get some rest before this all starts falling apart."

 _Sleep._ Hutch snorted. He should be so lucky. What was he supposed to do? Return to the home he shared with Starsky, shower, and crawl into the bed they shared as if nothing had happened? Pretend as if the last month of their lives hasn't been a horrible mess, as if the last week hadn't been something out of a nightmare?

"No, I want to be here," he said.

"Okay."

"John Blaine took my gun," Hutch murmured, rubbing his fingers on the invisible blood staining his hands. "Will there be an investigation?"

"Should there be?"

Shrugging, Hutch shook his head; he pretended not to notice how Dobey wouldn't look him in the eye. His rubbing quickly turned to scratching, neatly trimmed nails run up and down the top of his left hand, leaving angry pink lines behind.

Watching the action warily, Dobey didn't stop Hutch until he drew blood. "A man died today," he whispered, his voice low, his hand holding his officer's wrist tight. "People are going to want to know why."

Eyes brimming with furious tears, Hutch pulled his wrist from Dobey's grasp, looking away from his angry superior as he tried to calm the grief overwhelming him—the horrible devastation associated with the knowledge that Starsky doesn't him by his side and the glint of condemnation flickering in Dobey's eyes.

"He wasn't a man," Hutch said finally, voice thick with anger. "Simon Marcus was a monster and I'm _glad_ he's dead."

"Shhh!"

Dobey eyes darted to the pair of uniform officers guarding Starsky's room. One was staring blankly at the floor while the other appeared entranced by the dim screen of his smartphone. If the circumstances were different Dobey would have yelled at the pair for their nonchalance, instead he was grateful, as the officers remained unaware of the sensitivity of Hutch's hateful declaration.

"You can't say things like that," he continued, "not after what you did. It is in your best interest to keep your mouth quiet."

"I only did what I had to," Hutch said obstinately. Kicking his foot against his chair he pointed an angry finger in his Captain's face. "If only you would have listened to me, then we would have found him sooner and none of this would have—"

"If _you_ would have done your job _correctly_ ," Dobey interjected, pushing Hutch's finger away, "then none of this—" Face falling, he silenced himself before finishing the cruel statement.

But it didn't matter that the accusation had been left unsaid. It wasn't anything Hutch didn't know; they were the same words he had heard hours before.

 _"This is your fault, Hutchinson,"_ _Simon Marcus had said cheerfully._ _"And Starsky will never forgive you for what he endured at the hands of fate because of you. He trusted you and you made him bleed."_

"This is my fault," Hutch whispered, smoothing his hands over his face as tears began spilling down his cheeks. Biting his bottom lip, he pressed his forehead to his palms, trying desperately to hold on to what little control he had left. It didn't work, and a soft shaky sob escaped his mouth before he could stop it.

"Go home," Dobey urged grimly. "Get some sleep, and clear your head." He placed a comforting hand on Hutch's back. "There is nothing you can do about this now."

Though he knew Dobey was right—that he should leave and take solace in the quiet while he could—Hutch's guilt was stronger than the kindness behind the gruff suggestion. Outside Starsky's hospital room, he would wait, until either his battered partner finally request to see him or for IA to collect him for questioning. And sitting next to Captain Dobey, Hutch wondered which he was dreading most.


	2. Chapter Two

**Current Day:**

Body aching, Starsky sat silently in his hospital bed.

His mind was fuzzy, his body numb as he tried to piece together the last two weeks of his life. He doesn't remember being taken or being found. He has no solid memories of what Simon Marcus did to him but feelings have remained. Terror and helplessness have lingered, twin emotions that consume him, both feelings connected to a newly discovered fear of the dark and a deep-seated dread his scattered psyche is struggling to understand how or why he feels so fervently.

Something is wrong. Something has gone so terribly wrong.

Nearly a week has passed since Hutch rescued him—or so he's been told—and he's yet to see his partner; Hutch hasn't been by to visit him and Starsky refuses to ask him to. He doesn't want to see him, he can hardly tolerate the thought. Something about his partner's appearance is unsettling; his inquisitive blue eyes and pale blond hair are both somehow irrevocably entwined with the terror he feels now.

Arriving early that morning, Aunt Rosie and Uncle Al have been with him most of the day, and every day since he was brought in. Their presence is comforting but it isn't enough to calm him, to ease the pain of what has been done. They've been careful with their comments, their statements of love and support; they've gone to great lengths not to draw attention to the dark bruises and the deep, angry scratches that mar his once healthy skin. The bedsheets, crisp, clean, and white complement his ashen skin tone, matching the newly acquired bandage covering the deep knife wound marking his cheek.

He doesn't know what to say but neither do they, and the three of them sit in an odd silence, ignoring his sudden fragility, the remnants of all the horrible things that had been done, all the things he doesn't want to remember and every little detail he does.

Seated next to the hospital bed, Aunt Rosie held his hand tightly. Forcing a smile, she failed to hide the sadness in her eyes. "We love you so much, Davy," she whispered. "We're so happy that you survived."

Eyes set on the muted TV set hung high in the corner, Starsky wanted to reassure her that he was fine. That she could relax the worry etched in her kind features because his injuries look so much worse than they actually were. But he's unable to find energy to speak and he doesn't have the strength to lie.

Nothing about him is fine.

Standing by the window, his back turned on his wife and nephew, Uncle Al silently broods. He doesn't know what to say to make Starsky feel better, but he longs to ease his pain. Despite Rosie's claims otherwise, he never was any good in traumatic situations, and contemplating on how to best help his nephew, Al finds himself thinking of another time—years ago—when a troubled little boy walked off of an airplane and became a fixture in their everyday lives.

Al smiled at the thought. Little Davy, only nine years old, ripped jeans, ACDC t-shirt and a fresh black eye. He came to them with a chip on his shoulder, an attitude problem, and C minus grade point average.

 _"I won't love you,"_ Davy had declared defiantly. _"I'm just hanging out here until Mom wants me back home."_

 _"Okay,"_ Al had said, his voice gruff and a hint of Budweiser on his breath. _"We won't make you."_ He and Rosie shared a knowing look as he gripped the boy's shoulders and guided him toward baggage claim.

 _"Your Uncle and I were thinking about a trip to Disneyland tomorrow,"_ Rosie said. _"Won't that be fun?"_ _  
_  
 _"Disneyland is for babies,"_ Davy scoffed. _"I'm too old for that shit."_

 _"Don't swear,"_ Rosie scolded immediately, but Al smiled. Boys would be boys.

They took him to Disneyland anyway; Davy had loved every second. He had insisted on repeat rides on the Matterhorn and had giggled heartily when, after the fifth ride, Al had turned and odd shade of green and rushed to the men's room. Al couldn't remember being that sick before—or since—but he didn't mind because in that moment, watching Davy laugh with abandon—with all of his adolescent angst melting away— Al had known it had been worth it.

They spent the rest of their time taking in the milder attractions and with mouse ears displayed prominently on his head, Davy ate his weight in ice cream cones. Before it was time to go home they detoured to a gift shop and Rosie instructed Davy to pick out a souvenir. Al still remembered how the boy's choice had surprised her but how he had half-expected it. He'd heard the boy's soft sobbing in the middle of the night and he had pretended not to notice how the lamp on Davy's nightstand remained on long after sunrise.

 _"I want this,"_ Davy had said, handing over the Mickey Mouse nightlight. He didn't offer any explanation and they didn't ask; being afraid of the dark at Davy's age was a hard thing to own up to.

As time moved on, it didn't take long for Rosie and Al to discover that a new found fear of the dark, fistfights with classmates, and a dropping grade point average weren't the only things their nephew was dealing with. That first year had been so difficult—for all of them—and Al remembered thinking a how things couldn't get much worse.

Turning to look at his grown nephew, Al grimaced. They had been lucky back then because this situation was infinitely worse. Davy's pain and anger after losing his father had been understandable and easier to contend with; it was a pain they had shared. But this pain, born from horrifying indignities and extreme terror, Al had no idea how to handle.

"Is Hutch planning on visiting today?" Rosie asked softly.

"No," Starsky said, his voice deep and scratchy from disuse.

"Well, what about tomorrow? Will he be able to take you home?"

"No."

"Honey, are you sure—?"

"I said no!" Starsky said, his wavering voice angry and determined, allowing a brief glimpse of the pain and confusion bubbling under the surface of too pale skin and dull blue eyes.

"If he isn't coming then how will you go home?" Rosie countered softly.

"I'm _not_ going home."

Closing his eyes tightly, Starsky pressed his head further into the pillow. Images of Marcus and Hutch dance in the darkness behind his eyelids, leaving an aching panic in his heart and reinforcing his decision not to return home. He couldn't go home—not after what happened; not after the horrible things that had been done—and shuttering, he opened his eyes once more.

"Okay," Rosie whispered. "I don't think you should be alone. Especially not after…" Biting her lip she turned her gaze to the floor. "Well, I don't want you to be alone, anyway," she added a moment later, a soft authority in her tone. "Why don't you come home for a while?"

"Okay," Starsky agreed. He didn't care where he went just as long as Hutch wasn't there. He needed a safe space to think clearly; distance to allow his confusion and fear to ebb. It was the only way to compartmentalize what he had been through. The only way he could pretend that none of it mattered, or better yet, that none of it really happened.

He doesn't know how he and Hutch are going to deal with what's taken place—or even if they can, because throughout all of his confusion and pain one bothersome truth remained: Hutch was responsible for what had happened; his actions had made Starsky a target; it was he who had tortured him in the darkness.

Xx

 **Months Prior:**

Sitting opposite his partner, at their shared desk in the middle of Squad Room 519, Starsky heard Hutch groan as his iPhone rang once again.

Looking up, he watched Hutch's face darken as he swiped his finger across the screen, ignored the incoming call, and then tossed the phone back down on the desk. It was the fourth such call Hutch had ignored that morning and Starsky momentarily wondered if he should venture a question to confirm his partner's fatigued mental state or if he should let it go for today.

Face down, his attention focused on the paperwork in front of him, Hutch's body language was alive with fury. The tension in his back was enough to make a bystander grimace. "Jesus-fucking-Christ," he muttered under his breath, the frustrated words not really aimed at anyone or anything.

Exhaling in defeated manner, Starsky decided to let the topic go. For now. He didn't need Hutch to verbally affirm his palpable frustration; he didn't need to hear more empty words from his partner assuring him _he was fine_ or another quick, biting remark. Besides, it wasn't as if he didn't understand what Hutch was going through—he of all people _understood_.

Death was hard on people; losing a family member—especially under such dramatic and sudden circumstances—was incredibly difficult. The loss allowed a person a certain amount of in his opinion. Hutch, however, seemed intendent on pushing the boundary as far as it could go and in the two months since Richard Hutchinson had passed, he had become increasingly difficult to deal with.

As a man, Starsky understood. Hutch was grieving. Currently that grief was presenting itself as anger, impatience, frustration, and an ever-present icy stare. Hutch didn't need a lecture or an argument; he needed time and space to sort through the complex feelings that came with losing a loved one.

But as Hutch's domestic partner, Starsky didn't understand at all. Wasn't the point of being committed to someone the ability seek respite in them when you were feeling broken? Apparently not from Hutch's point-of-view. He had been avoidant and distant since returning from his father's funeral. Even though Starsky understood that his need for isolation didn't have anything to do with him or something he had done, it still stung. And this new sting coupled with a lingering one was threatening to consume him in an ocean of anger he wasn't sure he would be able to emerge from if he gave into its depths.

Hutch's father had died and he had returned to the Midwest for his funeral, but he had left Starsky behind. He had neither invited nor allowed him to accompany him back home, and Starsky still didn't know the reason why.

Hutch had always been private, that was nothing new. It was a personality trait that Starsky had accepted and, over the years, had become increasingly grateful for. Tightlipped, he was good at keeping secrets, divulging private details on a need-to-know basis and often in creative ways which allowed him conceal more delicate truths. Over the course of their professional partnership this skill had helped them in enormous ways when dealing with shady snitches, nervous witnesses, and even pacifying Captain Dobey when they had traveled too far on the wrong side of the procedural line and violated department investigation guidelines. And over the course of their personal lives it was a quality that had proved invaluable, saving them from ridicule and possible professional complications should the true nature of their personal relationship ever be discovered. Being a gay cop wasn't prohibited, however, dating your partner certainly was, and not reporting such a detail for the necessary re-arrangements to be made and actively concealing it was an actionable offense.

Hutch's penchant for secrecy and privacy was indispensable but, as of late, it had become a problem between the pair.

There were so many questions Starsky wanted to ask Hutch regarding his family and his father and why he hadn't allowed him to accompany him back home—all things he felt Hutch should have already told him, that he should have already known. But given Hutch's unpredictable demeanor, his quick anger and vicious frustration, it wasn't a question or a topic of conversation that could be easily discussed.

It wasn't as though Starsky could ask him why or what had led him to make the decision he had—at least not right now. Someday maybe, but definitely not now, because Hutch was hurting, angry and mean. You couldn't depend on the validity of answers from someone grieving. They always seemed to be either too upbeat or too pessimistic; they were rarely honest or truthful because their viewpoint was skewed, transiently impeded by pain they hadn't begun to truly process.

And looking at Hutch, Starsky knew that he hadn't begun to process much. He was still reeling from the middle-of-the night phone call that had alerted him of his father's death. The look on his face had been so horrible that Starsky hadn't been able to define his partner's emotion with words. It was unlike any expression he had ever seen.

When Hutch had flown back to Duluth he had gone alone and he hadn't called Starsky once while he was there. He returned five days later, looking tired and broken, overwhelmed and lost—emotions which had lingered, presenting as anger Hutch refused to control. He had returned to work soon after and refused to speak about what had taken place, how he felt about his father or his brief visit home.

"I need you to sign this." Starsky pushed a freshly printed report across their shared desk. "You don't even have to look at it because, buddy, I'm telling you, it's perfect, right down to the very last dirty detail."

Scowling, Hutch grabbed a pen, scribbled his signature at the bottom of the page, and then pushed the paper haphazardly to the floor.

"Uh… thanks," Starsky said. Inhaling deeply, he held the breath and counted to ten, giving himself a moment for his knee-jerk anger to ebb and Hutch an opportunity to apologize or at least pick up the paper he had so rudely discarded. When it became apparent his partner was going to do neither, he exhaled heartily. "You didn't have to do that, you know." His eyes narrowed as he stood, then bent to collect the report. "You're having a shit time, I get that, but that doesn't mean you have to be asshole all the time."

Slapping the report on the desk between them, he sat back down, his eyes unwavering as he waited for Hutch to respond.

"Sorry," Hutch muttered disingenuously.

"No." Starsky shook his head. "Don't tell me that. You don't want to say it and I don't want to hear it."

Head snapping up, Hutch's eyes flickered furiously. "What do you want to hear?"

"I don't know; considering that is the first word you've spoken to me all morning, I was hoping for something a little more sincere."

"I'm sincere."

"Not lately."

"That's bull-shit, take it back."

"Are you kidding? No."

Brows narrowing, Hutch's mouth hung slightly agape as though he waiting for Starsky to finally realize the error of his words and retract them. Watching him carefully, Starsky waited for a furious outburst. He was surprised, however, when Hutch's anger and attention shifted, eyes frozen the stack of files on the edge of their desk and pulled a manila file from the top.

"Blackwell?" he whispered sounding almost in awe as he read initial intake report. "A missing person's case? I didn't hear about this, when did Dobey assign this one?"

"While you were back home," Starsky said, providing as little detail as he could. "Give it to me." He extended his hand expectantly. "I don't want it. I was gonna talk to Dobey about it later."

"You just left it sitting here for all that time?" Refusing to surrender the file, Hutch leaned back in his chair and flipped through the crisp contents. "That's great police work, Starsk."

Starsky watched, a mixture of dread and hope filling his chest, as the palpable anger and frustration which had surrounded his partner for weeks slowly disappeared and settled into something else.

"Blackwell," Hutch whispered absently as though he didn't intend voice his thought. "And a missing person's case. That's… odd."

"The whole-fucking-case is odd," Starsky said. "Like I said, I don't want it."

"I don't know, it sounds kinda… interesting to me."

Hand dropping to the desktop, Starsky was troubled by the words. The case was interesting—he wasn't going to disagree with that. It wasn't every day that an affluent, disenchanted, twenty-something male disappeared; however, in this instance, the primary suspect promised to be more fascinating than the missing man as Brian Blackwell was rumored to have last been seen living on property own by the notorious Simon Marcus.

Simon Marcus was a mystery unto himself. A hermit who lived a private existence on a vast private compound on the outskirts of the city, he didn't sound like someone who would be a powerful man. Though he had never the met him, growing up in Bay City Starsky had heard the stories—cautionary tales traded on the school-yard about Marcus's powers, what he could and would do to anyone who dare cross his property-line. According to the stories, Marcus was a strange man—a self-isolated and creepy one, at that—and he was dangerous. It was rumored he had powers that people couldn't explain, that they couldn't even began to understand; it was alleged that he could read minds, that he could take one look at someone and somehow gain access to their most private of thoughts; and it was assumed that he killed people—although that particular detail had never been substantiated, there were plenty of rumors regarding individuals he had supposedly taken who had never been seen or heard from again.

"I don't think we should be on it," Starsky said, unsure if his determination was due to worry for Hutch or apprehension from the tales he had been told. But he refused to entertain the idea of taking on an investigation that would demand long hours and sleepless nights—something that would undoubtedly widen the already growing gap between them. They had enough to think about, enough to work through once things Hutch's grief calmed down.

"Starsky," Hutch said. "I _want_ this case."

Starsky wanted to disagree. To grab the file out of his partner's hands and firmly refuse to consent to such a thing, but there was something about Hutch's tone and the way he was looking at the file, his blue eyes gleaming as though it was something he had been waiting for—the right case and puzzle to distract from how terrible he was feeling. He looked almost normal, as if they had suddenly traveled back in time, before Richard Hutchinson's death, before Hutch had begun to silently unravel, and before a quiet tension had settled between them, slowly but steadily transforming them from lovers and partners into strangers.

"Okay," Starsky conceded, though later he would wonder why. He felt a warmth rush through chest as Hutch's face broke into a brilliant smile. His joy was palpable, intoxicating, and reassuring. And presented with a version of Hutch he hadn't seen in far too long, Starsky was unable do anything but give into his wishes. "We'll do it."


	3. Chapter Three

**Current Day:**

It wasn't until the night before Starsky was scheduled to be discharged from the hospital that Hutch finally summoned the courage to visit him again.

His first visit had ended traumatically—too soon and without a glimpse of his injured partner. Sitting in the hallway with Dobey, it hadn't been long before Hutch had been quietly collected by Lieutenant Fargo of IA. Fargo had taken him downtown and in the privacy of his office he had questioned Hutch on details regarding Simon Marcus, Starsky's abduction, the details of his rescue, and the events leading to Marcus's death. While Hutch had complied, doing his best to answer every question he was asked, he had remained painfully aware that having his official interview personally conducted by Fargo was far from good.

He had expected Simonetti and Dryden, an IA partnership whose vast professional success mirrored that of his and Starsky's. Serious and gruff, Fargo only conducted personal interviews in high stake IA investigations, the kind that ended with termination—or worse. And within the first ten minutes of the interview, Hutch realized that Fargo was far from interested in obtaining honest answers to the questions he was asking, because it was clear he had already decided upon the truth.

Believing that Hutch's father's death had left him with wavering mental stability, Fargo was insistent that Simon Marcus had finally pushed Hutch over the edge, resulting in Marcus's brutal death and Starsky's vast injuries. Hutch's behavior prior to Starsky's disappearance—and after— had only helped reinforce this truth which Fargo so firmly assumed.

Hutch had left the interview feeling stung, his heart heavy with renewed guilt and responsibility and the undeniable knowledge that his superiors held him just as accountable for what had happened to Starsky as he did himself. There would be an official disciplinary hearing, of course, but Fargo had been clear he thought Hutch should be prevented from resuming his official duties, and while he hadn't explicitly told Hutch not to pursue immediate contact with his partner, he hadn't encouraged it—advising Hutch he should wait until Starsky was discharged from the hospital to see him again.

Arriving at the hospital uninvited and unannounced, Hutch half expected the information desk to turn him away. He was surprised when he was met with friendly smiles and, after a quick look in the duffle bag he slung low on his shoulder, allowed to continue down the long hallway.

The journey to Starsky's room was too short and too long at the same time. He found himself hastening his pace, as if taking longer to reach his injured partner would somehow change what had happened. And with his mind wandering freely, he imagined Starsky was in the hospital for a different reason. A broken leg or arm, a couple of bruised ribs, or a concussion from a bust gone bad—injuries which had nothing to do with Hutch or events he could have caused or prevented.

Starsky would be bored; having impatiently awaited visiting hours, he'd greet Hutch with a wide grin. Hutch would bring Starsky his favorite junk food and they'd watch irreverent TV shows. The mood would be light, laughter would come easy, and each would take comfort in the strong familiar presence of the other. And when it came time for Starsky to leave Hutch would be the one to take him home.

But the daydream was dashed as Hutch came upon Starsky's unguarded room. With his heart sinking, he glanced around the darkened hallway, wondering if the decision to leave Starsky unprotected was premature. He couldn't help fearing that something quietly waiting in the shadows to finish what Marcus had begun.

 _Everything is predetermined. Nobody can stop it what is meant to be. Fate will always find a way to claim what is hers._ Without warning, Marcus's words came rushing back. Closing his eyes tightly, Hutch gasped, grasping the strap of the duffle bag tightly.

 _No._

He wouldn't think about that now. Marcus had died and Starsky had lived, and it was the opposite of what Marcus had believed fate wanted. There was no purpose agonizing over what was already done; the only thing to do now was to focus on fixing what had been broken.

And so much had been broken, Hutch was certain of that. After a weeklong hospital stay Starsky wasn't coming home, instead he would be staying with his Aunt and Uncle. Not for long, Aunt Rosie had assured Hutch, over the phone hours ago, a few days, maybe a week at the most. Just long enough for some of Starsky's anger and fear to subside.

If Hutch was honest a part of him had expected it. He and Starsky hadn't been seeing eye-to-eye before Starsky's abduction and, now, with Hutch's relationship with Simon Marcus being evaluated on a microscopic level, it would have been ridiculous to expect Starsky to turn to him for reassurance. Regretfully—painfully—he knew Starsky had no interest in seeking comfort from him; his phone calls and text messages had been ignored, and Starsky had yet to request his presence.

Standing in front of the Starsky's room, he nervously wondered if he was making a mistake—if he should be respecting Starsky's request for space and time away. But it had been too long since he had seen his wounded partner; he was anxious to verify his safety. It wasn't enough to hear it from Dobey or Aunt Rosie, he has to see him with his own eyes, to ensure that he's finally stopped crying and to know that the wounds on Starsky's blood covered body had looked worse than they actually were.

Hutch still hoped weren't nearly as bad as they had seemed.

Summoning what courage he could, he inhaled deeply, opened the weighted door, and hoped for the best. Stepping through the doorway, he stood awkwardly, awaiting Starsky to acknowledge him. He cringed, an agonizing hiss filling the room as the door shut slowly behind him. Laying on the inclined bed, Starsky's head rested heavily on his pillow as he watched TV with glassy eyes.

"What are you doing here?" he asked softly, his eyes remaining on the TV screen.

"I brought you some clothes."

Grunting, Starsky didn't reply. Dropping the duffle on the floor, Hutch moved nervously to sit in the chair next to the bed. The muffled dialogue of a sitcom filtered through the room, and he grimaced as his eyes set on the large white bandage covering Starsky's swollen cheek. The sterile color offset the purple darkness surrounding both of his partner's eyes, and overwhelmed by a wave of guilt, Hutch had to force himself not to look away. Cuts and bruises peppered Starsky's pale face, traveling down his neck and disappearing under the collar of his long-sleeve t-shirt. With his stomach churning, Hutch wondered what else is hiding under the shirt covering Starsky's arms and chest—or his gray oversized sweatpants, for that matter. Dropping his eyes guilty to the floor, Hutch tried not to think about how much Starsky hated wearing sweatpants or the stomach-churning injuries that would require his suborn partner to wear them now.

"I love you and I'm sorry," Hutch whispered numbly, lifting a hand in the air only to drop it seconds later. He felt a rush of shame at his inability to properly express how awful everything seemed. How much he missed his partner's infectious laugh and easy smile, and how the man's sudden absence left a giant cavernous hole in his heart. "I don't know what else to say."

"I didn't ask you to say anything."

"I know."

"Why are you here? I don't want anything from you."

"I know that, too."

"I can't talk about this right now, Hutch."

"I'm sorry."

Despite the medication leaving his partner's voice monotone and eerily calm, Hutch could _feel_ Starsky's anger filling the room, threatening to suffocate them both. Starsky has yet to look at him, and, struggling to ignore this fact, Hutch turned his attention to his hands. Clean when he entered the room, Hutch gasped as he noticed the tips of his long slender fingers were now covered in blood.

"You're sorry," Starsky said, his taxed voice dry and wavering from impending tears. "I asked you not to do this."

"I know." Wiping his fingers on his pant legs, Hutch was horrified as the blood thickened, dripping to the floor only to disappear into the clean white tile. He couldn't think about the blood, not now. Later maybe, but definitely not now.

"I asked you to _stop_."

Closing his eyes, Hutch hung his head. He had been waiting for this; he _deserved_ this. It was unreasonable to hope Starsky would abstain from blaming him for what happened. After all, what had happened was his fault. "Buddy—"

"Don't _Buddy_ me!" Hoarse voice cracking with anger, tears streamed down Starsky's cheeks. "You didn't listen to me! When I asked you to stop, you just kept going—"

"I'm sorry. I didn't… I didn't mean to—"

"But you did!"

Standing swiftly Hutch reached out to comfort his crying partner, but his movement was too abrupt and Hutch's heart dropped as Starsky looked up at him, terror etched on his face.

"No!" Holding his hands up defensively, Starsky moved away from the impending touch. "Don't touch me. I-I can't—" he sucked in a shuttering gasp. "I-I can't have you touching me... Not after—"

Taken aback by Starsky's fierce avoidance, Hutch found himself wondering if his partner was reacting to the blood on his hands. Could he see it too? But looking at his fingertips, Hutch was surprised to find the bloodstains were gone, and fists balling at his sides, he realized Starsky hadn't been scared of invisible bloodstains. He had been afraid of him.

"Starsky," Hutch said, his voice hitching as inevitable fear clenched his heart. "What Marcus did to you, it's got nothing to do with me."

"It's got _everything_ to do with you! _Please_ , just _leave_. Don't make this worse than it has to be... I can't… not right now… when I look at you all I see is _him_."

Xx

 **Months Prior:**

"Man, I _cannot_ believe this guy!"

Unnerved by enthusiasm in Hutch's tone, Starsky looked up from the screen of his iPhone and at his partner. To say he was enjoying the Blackwell case would have been an understatement; Hutch had become obsessed.

"Yeah," Starsky mumbled, turning his gaze to the sporadically filled rooftop deck of The Pits. It was a beautiful Friday afternoon, sunny and warm, and a steady stream of patrons were beginning to filter into the establishment to get a jumpstart on the weekend. "Hey, why don't you put that away for a while?" he nodded at the manila file Hutch was thumbing through. "You've read that thing at least a hundred times since yesterday, can't you give a rest?"

"Do you have a problem with me doing my job, Detective Starsky?"

"No."

"Because it sounds like you do," Hutch said in a sing-song tone, his grin widening in amusement as he looked at his scowling partner.

Crossing his arms, Starsky leaned back and forced a deep breath. It wasn't that he was upset over Hutch's interest in finding Brian Blackwell because as his partner had said: he was doing his job, and to anyone else, that was exactly what it looked like. But Starsky had known Hutch long enough to recognize what he really was doing. He was immersing himself into a case so he didn't have to think about himself or how he was feeling.

Starsky had seen Hutch do it before and he wouldn't pretend he hadn't done it himself. It was coping mechanism; a way to survive the pain and confusion of personal anguish and make the bad days tolerable. It was an odd dance to fall into, the notion that by saving someone else you could ultimately save yourself. And while it was an honorable thought process and a powerful motivator, steadfast fixation on a case often facilitated its quick closure but left one of them in shambles. You could only run from your pain for so long before it caught up with you, and Starsky was worried that Hutch's decision to ignore his father's untimely death would destroy them both in the end.

Watching Hutch's brows furrow with interest as he remained engrossed in the case notes, Starsky fought another wave of anger. Hutch was clinging to the Blackwell case as if it were a life raft.

"You've had yourself buried in that file since we took the case," Starsky groused. "Is it too much to ask that you take an hour off and have drink with me on a Friday night? You know, a little professional-personal life balance, that's important you know."

Glancing up, Hutch assessed Starsky momentarily. "Okay," he sighed eventually. Shutting the file, he tossed on the table. "If you don't want to talk about the case, then what do you want to talk about?"

Starsky held back a snort. He wanted to talk about Hutch, his father, and how he was dealing with the loss. But the questions died on his lips; they wouldn't be welcome and he was not eager to start another fight. "Nothing," he lied. "I just want to be here with you, without work and _that_ case lingering between us."

"What case?" Huggy asked warmly, placing two tall amber glasses of beer on the table.

Starsky forced a smile. "Nothing, Hug, just—"

"Missing persons," Hutch said, a little too loudly. "Apparently, some guy disappeared in the company of a very curious man."

"How curious?" Huggy asked.

"Pretty curious." Hutch grinned. "Our missing gentleman was last seen living on the property of one, Simon Marcus."

"H-utch." Starsky shot his partner a warning glance before smiling at the people sitting two tables away who were now watching them with an uneasy stare. Simon Marcus, guilty or not, was not a name they should be dropping publicly this point as his Marcus's name seemed to ignite fear in the hearts of anyone who heard it—including his own.

"Some dude disappeared on the Marcus Compound and you really think you're gonna find him?" Huggy asked skeptically.

"I don't think, Hug," Hutch said, reaching for his beer. "I know. Trust me, one way or another, we'll do it."

"He's pulling my leg right?" Face contorting, Huggy looked at Starsky. "He's _not_ serious."

"He's serious," Starsky said flatly. "Although, I don't really know how he intends to pull it off. Marcus only a person of interest; we hardly have an excuse to question him let alone arrest him."

"Oh, man," Huggy said, looking at Starsky apprehensively. "That's bad, bad news. Don't tell me you're really goin' to do this. You're actually going to go the Marcus Compound? You're really going to meet and question the guy?"

"I guess," Starsky said, forcing an even tone. Leave it to Huggy to zero in on his hesitation, to give a voice to the apprehension he was trying to ignore.

"You really shouldn't do that," Huggy said. "That's a bad, bad deal. Don't you remember the stories? You shouldn't give him a reason to know you, and you certainly shouldn't piss him off."

"We're not exactly aiming to piss him off, Hug," Starsky offered, forcing nonchalance. "You know, we're just going to ask him a few questions about a guy he knew…"

"A guy he knew!"

"…Who just so happens to be missing now."

"Missing!" Huggy exclaimed. "Just you watch you don't end up missing, too. Questioning Simon Marcus on a disappearance, man, that is just about the most asinine thing I have ever heard!"

"I can't believe it," Hutch chuckled, looking between Starsky and Huggy. "You're really afraid of this guy."

"Man, have you been livin' under a rock?" Huggy looked exasperatedly at Hutch. "Everybody is afraid of _that_ guy! The powers he has, the things he's able to convince people to do. They say he sees things, you know? That he can take one look at you and know your worst fears. Man, you could not pay me enough to meet—"

"Come on!" Hutch interjected. "You've got to be kidding me. You can't tell me you actually believe that!"

"No, it's true," Starsky verified, gripping his beer glass in both of his hands. Tilting his head, Hutch's brows rose. "You didn't grow up here," Starsky shrugged, "you don't know what he's done, and you haven't heard the stories."

" _What_ _stories_?" Hutch snorted.

"Oh," Starsky hedged, wiping his thumb over the condensation building on the side of his glass. "It's just like Huggy says, you know?" Noting Hutch's growing smile, he frowned. "Hey, Huggy and me, we knew a guy, okay?" he added in a frustrated tone. "Edwin Greene, Hug and me were on the high school basketball team with him—"

"And I suppose Marcus made him disappear?" Hutch asked sarcastically.

"No," Starsky glared, "a friend of his cousin got mixed up with Marcus and nobody ever saw him again."

Hutch glanced between Huggy and Starsky in disbelief. "Oh, come on!" he chuckled. "You guys are making this shit up!" He pointed his thumb at Starsky. "I mean, I _know_ he's gullible enough to believe garbage like that, but you Hug? I expected a lot more from you. Are you even listening to yourselves? Two grown men recounting stories of the boogie man of their youth and believing it with the naivety of little boys."

"You can believe us or not," Huggy said. "It isn't going to change the fact that Marcus is bad news. I just hope you realize that sooner rather than later."

"Oh, I _realize_ ," Hutch laughed into his beer.

"I'm sure _you_ don't," Huggy groused, rolling his eyes. Noting Starsky's odd expression, he tapped his fingertips on the table and softened his tone. "But he does." Nodding at Starsky he smiled. "I know he can be a little gullible when it comes to the supernatural, but I'm just hoping you _actually_ listen to your other-half on this one—"

"Who's gullible?" Setting his empty beer glass on the table, Starsky's eyes flickered with indignation as Hutch chuckled. "I just happen to have a healthy respect for things I can't explain."

"Avoidance," Hutch mumbled.

"What?" Starsky asked.

"You have a healthy _avoidance_ of things you can't explain," Hutch clarified. "Respect and avoidance are two different things, Starsk."

Mouth agape, Starsky stared at his partner _. Avoidant._ How dare he say such a thing? Joking was fine; Starsky often expected to be the butt of his sarcastic partner's jokes. In fact, most of the time he embraced it, but it was incredibly annoying to hear Hutch describe him with the adjective most descriptive of his partner's recent behavior—especially with how supportive Starsky had been with Hutch's recent avoidance.

Looking uneasily between Starsky and Hutch, Huggy inhaled sharply and reached for their half-empty glasses. "I think I'll just go refill these for you—"

"I'm _avoidant_?"

"Yes," Hutch said. "When it comes to things you don't want to deal with you are avoidant."

"I'll just going to leave you two alone," Huggy said, quickly stepping away from the table.

"The things _I_ don't want to deal with?" Starsky scoffed.

"Or the things you're afraid of."

Gaping at his partner, Starsky was at a loss for words. Hutch couldn't know what he was doing, baiting him into yet another argument they both knew wouldn't end well—in public no less. But when Hutch's lips formed a stubborn line and his eyes glistened with icy annoyance Starsky was certain his partner knew exactly what he was doing, and what his own forced response would have to be.

 _It wasn't fair_ , he thought. He was left minimizing his anger while he allowed his partner to say whatever he pleased because he was still struggling with his father's death. Though he would have liked nothing more than to continue the argument, Starsky found himself once again refraining. There was no feasible way he could continue this conversation—not without comparing Hutch's assessment of his avoidance with regards to Simon Marcus to Hutch's avoidance of speaking about his father's death.

"Never mind," Starsky growled.

Brow furrowing angrily, Hutch watched him carefully. Starsky was sure he could see his partner carefully weighting the consequences of continuing the conversation. And glaring dangerously, Starsky silently dared Hutch to continue, and for a moment he hoped he would. Though he absently wondered if that wasn't what they really needed to do—yell truthful remarks at each other until they were both in tears—Starsky knew it wasn't, because even he knew anger was the biggest symptom of grief and pain was never diminished by frustration-fueled words. Deep down he knew, even if Hutch didn't adhere to the opportunity Starsky was presenting him with he wouldn't continue the argument—no matter what Hutch said or how the words made him feel.

"Fine," Hutch grumbled, reaching for the discarded file. "Personal time is over, let me know when you've decided to grow up and you're ready to get back to work."


	4. Chapter Four

**Current Day:**

The darkness of the bedroom was unbearable.

Holding his iPhone tightly, Starsky pressed his thumb to the round home button and the screen lit up, presenting him with the familiar background picture of his beloved Camaro and the current time. Despite his fogginess, he felt a flash of disappointment that was quickly replaced with desperation. It's near midnight and his most-recent dose of pain medication has yet to kick in, returning him to the satisfying numbness of dreamless sleep.

Three days have passed since he left the hospital and he still struggles to remember a time when his mind was clear. During his time with Marcus his mind was heavily incapacitated—consumed with overwhelming fear—and now his doctor seemed intent on doing the same. Though he's using more conventional and accepted means; the pills proscribed to combat the pain of still-healing wounds and aching stiffness of his broken ribs leave his thoughts scattered and his mind enveloped with numbness. And still struggling with the aftermath of his injuries, he welcomes the side effects of his pain medication as he tries not to count or categorizes his wounds. Doing so would mean having to think about what happened, and he isn't ready to do that. Bits and pieces are coming back to him now. Slivers of what Marcus did and why flash across Starsky's mind, making the night seem too dark and the comfort of deep, drug induced sleep more enticing.

The phone screen darkened abruptly and pressing the home button once more, Starsky absently wondered what Hutch was doing. If he was sleeping or still suffering from the crippling insomnia that had plagued him over the last few months. Tapping his passcode on the screen, Starsky swiped to Hutch's contact information. He bit his lip as his thumb hovered over the small phone icon, before deciding not to call his partner. As much as he wanted to reach out—to be reassured by the soft familiar gruffness of Hutch's voice—he knew it wouldn't be that that easy.

Talking to Hutch meant thinking about Marcus, and laying in the darkness that is the last thing Starsky wanted to do.

Dropping the phone, he let out a taxed breath, pushing the palms of his hands into his eye sockets. It isn't too much pressure, just enough to stimulate a dizzying display of dots that dance sporadically in his vision and distract him from how much the darkness of his adolescent bedroom is bothering him.

The room isn't completely dark, but the dim light of the nightlight in the corner does little to chase away the imaginary monsters hiding in the shadows of the room. In fact, it intensifies them as the mellow light filtering from behind the unbearable picture of an overly happy Mickey Mouse seems to make the darkness of the room infinitely worse.

 _Fucking Mickey Mouse._

He scowled at the offensive object, but with his face permanently frozen in a wide joyful smile Mickey doesn't seem to mind. Starsky's frown deepens; he hates Mickey almost as much as the events that led Aunt Rosie to unearth the offensive object. She had meant for it to be comforting, but somehow all it does is makes things worse.

 _Fucking nightlight._

 _Fucking childhood bedroom._

 _Fucking Simon_ — _No_.

Rolling over on his back, Starsky was unable to repress the groan that escapes his mouth. His eyes watered as his ribcage protested the abrupt movement and retaliated with a burning jolt of pain followed by an incessant throbbing.

"Ahhhhhh," another deep moan slipped out as a few tears stream down his stubble-covered cheeks.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he bit his lip, forcing himself to breathe through his nose. But the breaths are far from deep and less than calming, and Starsky struggled to not dissolve into tears, and if it weren't for the intense pain sobbing promised, he probably would have. He wanted nothing more than to call Hutch, to have his partner whisper soft comforting words that would sooth the pain away. But what little comfort the thought of his partner brings is abruptly chased away by a dark memory of Marcus.

 _"What do you see in the darkness?"_ _the memory of_ Marcus's voice taunted, echoing in his mind.

The words force a deep sob from Starsky's chest. Grimacing, he shifted uncomfortably as another wave of pain traveled through his lower back and up his chest, and sobbing in earnest he was helpless to stop the tears spilling down his cheeks.

It wasn't enough for Marcus to have him, but he had to steal Hutch too. His partner, best friend, lover, and only safe place in the world. And now Starsky can't think of Hutch without Marcus—the two are unbearably intertwined. Though he doesn't have the courage to face his partner, he knows he can't hide from him forever, either. Sooner or later he will have to face him and they'll both have to deal with what happened. But Hutch had felt like a stranger before Marcus and he feels like an enemy now, and clenching his phone tightly in his fist, Starsky knows that a phone call in the middle of the night will do little to ease his pain.

He doesn't know how long he lays there, forcing himself to pay more attention to his breathing than the pain radiating from his body, but when his pain finally ebbs he's lying on his side with his gaze unconsciously—intently—focused on Mickey once more. And with the painkillers finally rushing through him, Starsky finds that what was annoying about Mickey before is soothing now, and with a smile dancing on his lips, he succumbs to the numbness of the pain medication and the comfort of sleep.

Xx

 **Months Prior:**

The Marcus compound was large—nearly 320 acers.

Located miles outside of the city, the only way in or out of the property was a small unkempt one-lane dirt road.

"You've got to be _shitting_ me," Starsky groaned, seconds after turning off of the highway and stopping in front of the dilapidated path.

Scowling in disgust, he imagined what a road like this, full of pot holes and oversized rocks, would do to his baby. Then thinking about what Merle would charge to fix that kind of damage, Starsky nearly turned around. He had just paid Merle touch up the paint job too—which was not a small expense. He hated to pay man's inflated prices, but Merle was the best in town and the only one he would allow to touch the 1982 Chevy Camaro. The car was vintage and pristine. Uncle Al had warned him about the cost of maintain a classic car when Starsky had requested his help in finding one.

 _"It'll be a money pit, Davy,"_ Al had said, barely repressing a look of disgust. _"How about you invest your money into something a little more dependable, something that won't suck your wallet dry."_

But Starsky had insisted and his uncle, who owned a little car lot on the south side of the city, finally caved and gone in search of a Chevy Camaro that was made the same year Starsky had been born.

It didn't take long. A few short months but a great deal of money later, Starsky had his vintage car. He'd had taken a lot of teasing from Hutch not only for paying the absurd amount to purchase the car but also painting it red with a large white vector stripe.

 _"It looks like a tomato, Starsk,"_ Hutch had snorted before collapsing into laughter.

Hutch's harsh assessment of the car hadn't kept him from riding in it, though. And later, after a night out and one too many beers, he had confided to Starsky how cool he really thought the car was.

Looking forlornly at the impending dirt road, Starsky sighed heartily. "Are you sure we gotta check this out today?"

"Yes." Glancing at his partner, Hutch noted Starsky's grim expression and rolled his eyes. "Don't look at me like that, you're the one who wanted to drive today."

"Yeah, but I didn't know I`d be embarking down the Oregon Trail!"

"Starsk," Hutch snorted. Pulling his eyes from the file, he leaned forward and palmed Starsky's headrest. "Are you really telling me that with all the stories you heard about Marcus growing up that nobody thought to share the cautionary tale of the shitty dirt road he lived down?"

Starsky frowned. Not this again. Hutch had been giving him a hard time about Marcus since the night at Huggy's and he was growing tired of his partner's constant jeering. It was bad enough they were visiting the Marcus compound—the seriousness and scariness of which Hutch still didn't comprehend—and Starsky had no interest in enduring his partner's mocking along the way.

It wasn't as if he enjoyed admitting how much the prospect of meeting Simon Marcus frightened him. In fact, he hated it. He was an adult—a cop—and far removed from being afraid of bogeyman or other mythical illusions of youth. But Simon Marcus wasn't a myth; he was real and so were the people he was rumored to have killed.

There were endless stories—terrible stories—about what Simon Marcus did to people. Starsky had shared some with Hutch but the more terrifying one's he had kept to himself. Why give his partner more ammunition for teasing? And Hutch's eagerness to dismiss Marcus and his power was frightening enough as it was.

Simon Marcus guilty or not, normal man or clairvoyant, was not to be taken lightly.

"I mean that," Hutch added, pointing at the road, "is a classic horror movie road. Any good, _really scary_ , antagonist would _love_ to live down that road—"

"Quit it."

"Quit what?"

"You know what." Starsky glared, pushing Hutch's hand off his headrest. If it would have been any other day, he would have let Hutch have his fun, but it wasn't. With their introduction to Simon Marcus imminent, Starsky had heard enough jokes for one day.

"Get on with it then," Hutch said, a hint annoyance in his tone. "We don't have all day."

Gripping the steering wheel tightly, Starsky sucked his bottom lip between his teeth and started down the road.

The road was longer than either man had expected, and the further they traveled, the dryer and more inhabitable the surrounding land became. Jagged and rock covered it was more reminiscent of an Arizona desert than a California landscape, and it went on for miles. Hundreds of tumbleweeds intermixed with erratic plant life, leaving the ground looking more dead than alive.

And with his anxiety spiking, Starsky wondered how anything could survive under such conditions or how anyone could stand living at the end of something that looked so decrepit and left its travelers with such an overwhelming sense of dread. While he wasn't an expert on the geological characteristics of the land neighboring the city, he had never seen a landscape look like this.

Maybe the stories of Marcus Simon's supernatural powers were true. Maybe the man really did have total control over the things that surrounded him.

"This is a little odd, isn't it?" Hutch said, his eyes locked on the land beyond the windshield. "I know it's been dry with the drought, but, man, this is _dry_."

Unsure whether Hutch was baiting him for another joke, Starsky grunted. And silently, they continued down the road for a few more miles. Then coming upon the Marcus residence the landscape abruptly changed.

"What the…" Starsky said, slamming on the car breaks as both he and Hutch were lurched forward in their seats.

Hutch's mouth fell open as he tugged his sunglasses off. Blinking rapidly, his face contorted as he struggled to understand what he was seeing.

The dryness of the land was gone. Replaced by vast green plant life and rows of flowering apple and walnut trees that disappeared into the horizon. Even the road had changed; the rocks and potholes had vanished, replaced by dark flatly packed dirt.

"How is this possible?" Hutch asked. "How can it be that desiccated and then," he indicated at the rich landscape, "this."

"I don't know." Starsky couldn't help a slight smile as he took in Hutch's wide eyes and shocked expression. Maybe he would become a believer yet.

"Don't." Hutch pointed a warning finger at him. "Don't start with your bull-shit."

"My bull-shit?" Starsky's grin widened as he waited for Hutch to explain the impossible.

"I'm sure there's a perfectly logical explanation for all of this."

"Like what?"

"Maybe they have a really great watering system."

"Out here?" Starsky exclaimed. "Yeah, that's would be _really_ great. _Really_ expensive too, and that's if it's possible—"

"Of course, it's possible," Hutch dismissed. Putting his sunglasses on, he pointed at cluster of buildings in the distance. "Come on, we're almost there."

The compound at the end of the dirt road was strange and split into two vastly different areas. An aged farmhouse and barn stood tall on the left, but the large white industrial buildings on the right were less alluring. Sterile and off-putting, they seemed as out of place as the landscape.

"Six buildings on the right," Hutch said. Turning his head, he scanned the area for inhabitants. "I don't see anybody."

"Me either." Starsky said, parking the car beside the barn. "You'd think somebody would have seen or heard us coming."

"Well, maybe something happened to them."

"Like what?"

"I don't know." Opening his door, Hutch grinned. "Maybe creepy Marcus used his powers and wished them all away."

"Oh, _fuck_ off!" Pulling his keys from the ignition, Starsky hopped from the car. "Awe, come on!" he groaned, noticing a fresh chip in the paint on the car's quarter panel. Bending down he rubbed his fingers across it and sighed. " _Shit_."

"Starsky, what are you—oh."

"Do you have any idea what Merle is going to charge me?"

Holding back a chuckle at the note of hysteria Starsky's tone, Hutch watched his partner smooth his thumb over the jagged edges of damage.

"Do you have any idea how much I put into this paint job?" Starsky added.

"Too much," Hutch joked. But when Starsky scowled up at him, he felt a little remorse for his words. His partner really did love the car. "Well, maybe your Uncle can fix it."

"Uncle Al doesn't do body work!" Starsky frowned. "You know that."

Hutch opened his mouth to continue but the words died on his lips as he noticed a group of men walking toward them. "Starsky," he nodded at his partner, "get up, we've been noticed."

Jumping to his feet, Starsky turned and watched the small group of men advance. At a distance they looked normal, nonthreatening and unassuming. In a different setting they could have been a group of friends gathered together for a rowdy night out. However as they became closer, Starsky's heartbeat quickened as he took in how similar their appearances were to Hutch and how vastly different they were from his own. The men, all of comparable height and builds, had pale skin, blond hair, and blue eyes.

" _Jesus_ ," Starsky breathed. "Hutch, are you seeing this?"

Ignoring him, Hutch took a step forward, smiling as he flashed his badge at the group of men standing in front of them. "Hello—"

"Who are you?" the tallest man asked. "What do you want?"

"Who are you?" Starsky asked.

"We're Detectives," Hutch said, glaring at his partner. "We'd like to ask you a few questions…" He hesitated, watching the men exchange wary looks and discreet whispers. "Is there a problem gentleman?"

Looking knowingly at the others, the tall man spoke again, "No problem. But we cannot speak here." Nodding at the farmhouse he smiled. "Come. Join us inside." Not waiting for a reply, the man turned and began walking to the farmhouse. Then one-by-one the rest of the group followed silently on his heels.

"Okay," Starsky said in a hushed tone. "You can't tell me, that wasn't _weird_."

"That may have been a little strange."

"Hey," Starsky said, grabbing Hutch by his forearm. "If they offer you anything to drink don't take it."

" _Jesus_ , Starsky," Hutch groaned, pulling his arm away. "Quit acting like a child and start thinking like a cop. It was a little weird but no more than that, okay? Stop trying to turn this case into something it isn't."

With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Starsky stood frozen in place. And as he watched his partner follow the blond men to the farmhouse, he tried not to think about how easily Hutch disappeared into the group.


	5. Chapter Five

**Current Day:**

Walking up the sidewalk to Al and Rosie's house, Hutch was taken aback over how out of place he felt. The small friendly ranch style house with attached garage and the neatly manicured yard had always been a place of comfort for him, but today it felt strange and uncomfortable—as this visit was unannounced and most likely unwelcome.

Starsky was discharged from the hospital days ago and he and Hutch hadn't spoken in nearly a week. Not since their traumatizing discussion at the hospital, when Starsky said he needed space to think about what had happened without Hutch hovering in the background waiting for him to absolve him of his guilt. Not that Starsky had actually said _those_ words. He had become too upset by Hutch's presence to finish their conversation, so Hutch had imagined that part for him. And really, the statement was a mild punishment in comparison to what Hutch thought he really deserved.

Approaching the front door Hutch pushed out a taxed breath. He wasn't sure what Rosie and Al knew about his relationship with Simon Marcus or what the man had done to their nephew, but they had to know something terrible unfolded; after all, Starsky's overt injuries were nauseating to say the least—angry red cuts and dark painful bruises had peppered almost every visible inch of his body—however these things were hardly the most disturbing physical reminders of what had happened.

Simon Marcus—as Hutch eventually learned—enjoyed marking his victims. Ritualistically baptizing them with fire he would leave behind the simple brand of a solid O shaped cattle prod on the side of their face. Marking them as his own before robbing them of their last breath and submitting them to the finality of the judgments of fate.

But Starsky had been different.

Hutch wasn't sure what had made Marcus forgo branding Starsky with iron. Had he been special or was this action born by the respect and fondness Marcus had developed for Hutch? Or maybe the man had known—perhaps, he had dreamed how it would all go down—and actively chose to make Starsky's mark infinitely more terrifying for Hutch, when panic stricken he had come upon the pair that day.

Whereas Marcus was accustomed to using fire, he had chosen to mark Starsky with blood. Pushing a rusty knife through the drugged man's cheek, missing both jaw and cheekbone, he had left his signature in the form of a long, linear scar that was sure to fade in time but never fully disappear.

In hind-site, Hutch was grateful; Marcus's cut had been purposeful, and if given the choice he supposed he would rather Starsky live with a faded scar over a brand. But that day, stumbling down the rickety medal ladder to find Marcus laughing maniacally and Starsky's face covered in blood as he heaved and choked, Hutch had been terrified. He had thought he had been too late.

And, now, lingering outside of Starsky's Aunt and Uncle's front door, Hutch found his terror had returned.

Why had he come here?

Rosie and Al were extensions of Starsky—his surrogate parents— and despite their close relationship with Hutch, it was unreasonable to expect them to refrain from condemning him for what had happened to their nephew.

They had welcomed Hutch with enthusiastic open arms when he and Starsky had become work partners, and with his own family so far away Rosie had immediately made it clear that Hutch was expected to become a fixture at their family events. Over time an unspoken understanding and fondness had grown between Hutch, Rosie, and Al—feelings that had only intensified when Starsky and Hutch had disclosed the true nature of their relationship.

Hutch had expected them to be angry, confused, and maybe a bit disgusted when, during one of their once a month family dinners, Starsky had taken him firmly by the hand and quietly told Rosie and Al that not only had they had been romantically tied for quite some time but they were planning on secretly committing to each other on a weekend getaway to Las Vegas. Their reaction was not what Hutch had expected—his own parents had been livid when he broke the news—Rosie and Al had been overjoyed.

Turning in place, Hutch frowned and looked at the street. He didn't have to do this today. He could put it off until tomorrow or at least until Starsky and he were on better terms. Suddenly, the prospect of knowing he lost Rosie and Al on top of everything else seemed too much.

Walking swiftly down the concrete steps, he heart sank as he heard the front door swing open.

"Ken?" Al looked at him oddly from behind the screen door. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Not long." Hutch turned and looked at Al awkwardly. "Uh, Starsky around?"

"No. Rosie took him to a doctor's appointment and then he's got his first visit with that psychiatrist today."

"Oh."

Opening the screen door, Al propped it against his shoulder. "He's still not talking to you, huh?"

Rubbing at his chest, Hutch shook his head.

"Well, you know, Davy, he's gotta hide behind his anger for a while. He's gonna say things he doesn't mean and then kick you to the curb. But give it some time, he'll come round."

"Yeah."

"How are you doing?"

"Fine."

"Yeah, I've been that kind of fine before too," Al chuckled. "Man, I remember some of the fights Rose and me used to have. She'd get all hung up on something and run away to her mother's house for _days_. But it always blew over…"

For a moment Hutch was taken back by the absurdity of the conversation. He knew Al was trying to comfort him, to make an impossible situation seem less so, but the idea that the residual trauma he and Starsky shared after Simon Marcus was comparable to marital dispute between Rosie and Al was a bit hard to believe. He doubted Al could imagine an argument that would be equal the fallout and pain of inadvertently offering your spouse up as a sacrifice for a sadistic serial killer.

"…anyway, they won't be back for some time," Al nodded at the house, "you wanna come in? Have a beer and talk about things?"

"Um," Hutch hedged. Shifting uncomfortably, he looked at the sidewalk. The last thing he wanted to do was talk about what had happened, and do so with Uncle Al—Starsky's Uncle—seemed like betrayal. "No... That's okay—"

"We don't have to talk about Davy, or anything like that." Stepping out on the front porch, Al's face softened. "You know, Rosie and me, we never really got a chance to tell you how sorry we were about your dad. We wanted to give you some time." He shrugged, sticking his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans. "Kept waiting for you feel good enough to come round again, but…" Al sighed, turning his gaze to the cars parked along the sidewalk.

 _That never happened._ Hutch's mind filled in what Al had left unsaid. Sadly, he realized this was the first time he'd seen Al since before his father died. His avoidance wasn't purposeful, he just hadn't felt up to hiding the pain and confusion the loss had left him with. And instead of dealing with pain he had run from it, and subsequently anyone who reminded him who he really was.

"Yeah," Hutch whispered thickly. "Well…I really wasn't feeling up to being around anybody, so… don't take it personally."

" _Hell_." Al smiled knowingly. "I get it. Losing somebody, especially when it's sudden like that, is _hard_. I remember when I lost my father, of course I was older than you are, but that was just about the worst pain I ever felt in my life."

Fighting unwanted tears, Hutch struggled to understand why Al was being so nice to him and why he was trying to help him with his pain. Didn't he understand what he had done to Starsky, or the snowball of terrible events that his ignorance had caused?

"Why are you telling me this?" Hutch whispered. "Why are you trying to comfort me after everything that's happened?"

"What do you mean?" Al scoffed lightly. "We're family—"

"But you're _not_ my family," Hutch insisted tearfully. "You don't belong to me. You should be angry… you should be telling me how bad I fucked up. N-not making me feel better. "

Hesitating, it took Al a moment to realize they were no longer speaking about the same thing. He wanted to offer condolences and understanding for a shared painful experience but Hutch, too guilt ridden to accept them, was insistent on imagining barriers that didn't exist.

"Listen, Ken," he said gently. "I know your father wasn't the most accepting person in your life. I know he was pretty hard on you growing up—that he never really stopped being hard on you. Losing him," Al shook his head, "well, I'm am sure that awakened a bunch of bullshit you never wanted to think about, but you have got stop running and from what happened and why, and you need to start leaning on people when you need to. After all, is that what started this mess in the first place?"

Hutch was too shocked by the truth of Al's words to respond. Setting his teary gaze on the sidewalk, he thought about how his father would have reacted in this situation—something that hasn't been far from his mind since the day he saved Starsky's life. His father would have been livid. Disappointed. Ashamed. And then, without a hint of Al's humanity or understanding, his father would have been cruel.

And, suddenly, Hutch understood the real reason he had come to uninvited to Rosie and Al's house. He had come to endure their anger; to have someone hate him as much as he hated himself. But as a few tears escaped down he cheeks, he knew his reasoning had been absurd; Rosie and Al would never overtly hate him. They were the opposite of his father and much too kind.

"I am sorry," Hutch said thickly. "I don't… I'm not… I wasn't trying to—"he hesitated on a sob. "I'm really sorry," he added in a near whisper. "I'm so sorry for _everything_."

"Of course you are," Al soothed. "But would _never_ blame you for what happened to Davy. I thought you knew that."

"But Starsky—"

"He doesn't blame you either. I know it seems like that now, but he doesn't. He's messed up. Hurting and confused but he'll be okay, and we're here, Rosie and me, for both of you to help you get past this."

The words touched Hutch in a way he couldn't begin to understand. Outside of Starsky, no one had ever expressed such unwavering support—at least not without expecting something in return—and it struck a deep nerve within him. Starsky had told Hutch how understanding Al was. How incredibly poignant he could be in the darkest moments, and Hutch had always understood the depth of Al's paternal love toward Starsky, but it's only now did he realize that same love had been extended to himself.

He opened his mouth to say something but with throat burning tightly he couldn't find the right words. Unwanted tears trailed down his cheeks and swiping at them angrily, he thought of Marcus, Starsky, and the million other things he'd like to take back.

"I-I don't know w-hat h-append," Hutch sobbed as Al pulled him into a tight hug. "I—"

"It'll be okay," Al soothed. "I promise you. This is all going to work out and you'll find your way back to each other. But until then you gotta deal with this. You have put this behind you, Ken, because, Davy, he's tough but he's got hard road in front of him. He's gonna need you to be strong and you can't be if you're busy hanging on to all this guilt."

Clinging to Al, Hutch finally allowed himself to cry. He cried over his father, Marcus, and the devastation both men had left behind; he cried for Starsky and all the terrible things he had endured; he cried for himself and all the things he should have done.

 **Months Prior:**

The farmhouse was peculiar.

Impossibly dark, the windows were boarded from the inside, leaving the house feeling more like an abandoned building rather than someone's home. Sporadic candle sconces were the only source of light. Hanging high on the walls, they were dim and unsettling, only allowing Starsky and Hutch to see what was directly in front of them.

The interior was a contradiction; while impeccably clean the fixtures where old and dilapidated. Faded, peeling wallpaper hung low, exposing snippets of the worn shiplap it was intended to disguise. The hardwood floors, dented, stained, and cracked made low creaking noises and sunk as they walked over them. And with each step the group took, Starsky was sure the wood would crumble under their weight, sending them tumbling through the floorboards and into whatever horrors lay below.

Leading Starsky and Hutch through the hallway and to the back of the house, the group of blond men remained eerily silent. Walking in close proximity they kept their gazes set directly in front of them.

Hutch trailed behind the men. His eyes scanning the room, he quickly absorbed every small detail of his surroundings. Starsky struggled to do the same but quickly found the interior of the home almost too unsettling to look at. With his heartbeat quickening, he realized how familiar it was. Not because he had been in the farmhouse before but because it was exactly as it had been described to him when he was kid. Captivated by the creepiness of the home, he didn't notice Hutch slowing his pace, and with his eyes frozen on the one of the sconces, Starsky let out a yelp of surprise as he ran into his lingering partner.

"Starsky!" Hutch hissed, grabbing his skittish partner by the shoulders.

"Sorry," Starsky whispered with wide eyes.

Watching the interaction of the partners, none of the blond men spoke. Their faces were set in disinterested expressions, but their blue eyes, shining in the dim candlelight, glistened with satisfaction.

"Get it together," Hutch growled, his voice almost too low to hear.

Starsky nodded. He felt a wave of disappointment as Hutch pulled his hands away and shoved him to walk in front of him. Looking in-between the men and his partner, Starsky's heart sunk. How could Hutch remain so unaffected by everything that surrounded them? In any other daunting situation Starsky would have felt assured— _safe_ —to have Hutch standing behind him, but seeing his partner's eyes sparkle with barely concealed annoyance he wasn't sure what he felt.

With a nod of his head, Hutch nudged Starsky forward, and they continued following the men. But coming upon a dark doorway, Starsky hesitated again. He felt a push from Hutch as the men continued through it, but watching them disappear one-by-one Starsky fought the overwhelming urge to run the other way, suddenly overtaken by a crippling wave of dread and one insistent thought consumed him.

They couldn't go through the door; if they did it would be the beginning of something terrible.

"Come on."

Starsky took an unconscious step forward as Hutch shoved him toward the darkness. "I don't want to…"

" _Starsky_ ," Hutch hissed. "What is wrong with you? You're making us look like rookies!"

"I…don't…care." Starsky struggled to plant his weight but his limbs felt too heavy to move as Hutch propelled him toward the door. "Quit…shoving…me," he gasped, feeling a tingling sensation that intensified as each push brought them closer to the door. His dread was growing now, transforming into crippling despair that made his heart pound and left him feeling cold.

"Quit acting so ridiculous!" Hutch demanded.

"I…want…to…leave!"

"Then do your job!"

One final shove sent Starsky stumbling through the doorway. Then, as quickly as it came, the weight on his body was gone, leaving him lightheaded and tired. Blinking, he scanned the darkness, and when his gaze settled on a man at the other end of the room, a new terror overwhelmed him. It was then he knew: he had been given his warning and Hutch had ignored it.

There would be no going back now.

Simon Marcus sat at the head of an aged apothecary table. With his hands tented over a loosely bound leather journal and his face frozen apathetically, he watched Starsky averted his nervous gaze around the room.

"What happened to your friends?" Hutch asked.

Only the tallest of the blond men remained. Standing next to Marcus, his face was set in an icy stare. Setting his dark eyes Hutch, Marcus smiled but didn't answer. Glancing at Starsky, Hutch reached for his badge.

"There is no need for that," Marcus said matter-of-factly. "I do not need proof that you are here on an official capacity." He tilted his head at the tall man next to him. "Brother Gale has told me everything."

"Everything," Hutch repeated skeptically. "But he doesn't know why we're here. We never told him."

"What he knew was sufficient." Standing, Marcus walked toward Hutch. Looking him up and down his smile widened. "I have been waiting for you," he added handing the journal over to Hutch. "You have come to hear about Brother Brian and the time he spent with me."

The words made Starsky's stomach lurch. Covering his mouth with his hand, he hung his head and willed himself not to get sick. A voice in the back of his head was screaming for him to pull Hutch from the room—to drag him kicking and screaming if he had to—but he remained powerless to do anything outside of focus on his own breath.

"It belonged to Brother Brian," Marcus said, indicating the journal. "I am afraid that is all that remains of him now."

Flipping through the book, Hutch noted the sloppy cursive filling up the pages. The ink used to write in it had been too dark for the light paper to sustain and it bled through each side, leaving the entries smudged and difficult to discern. Slamming it closed, he clutched it tightly and assessed Marcus carefully.

"How do you _know_ about his remains?" he challenged.

"It is all that remains of him _here_ ," Marcus clarified.

"When was the last time you've saw him…"

Starsky heard the beginning of Hutch's question but his voice sounded far way. There was a thickness to the air and an impossible weight to the room. With each deep breath he took, he struggled to take he wondered how Hutch could remain unaffected by it all. How could he stand there, calmly speaking to Marcus while he struggled to breath? Surely, his partner could hear him wheezing. He could see his face turning blue from lack of oxygen as he struggled not to pass out, couldn't he?

"How long was did Blackwell live with you?"

Hearing Hutch's fragmented voice once more, Starsky longed to reach out to his partner—to tell him that something was terribly wrong. His heart was pounding so quickly that he was sure he was dying. Feeling a weakness overtake his body, he fell to his knees and gasped, first for breath then out of terror.

The walls of the room were crying, long wide streaks of blood that oozed to the floor. Thick and warm the liquid rose quickly. Starsky watched in shock as it seeped over the flooring, reaching him and soaking his pant legs in what felt like seconds. Panic deepening, he looked at Gale, Marcus and Hutch, but they all remained unaffected by the state of the room. Huddled together their conversation was a garbled murmur and Starsky couldn't decipher what was being said.

Grimacing, he watched Hutch intently and _willed_ him to look down at him—to have some reaction to the strangeness of the room or to notice his distress and rush to help him off the blood covered floor. But when Hutch finally turned toward him, Starsky felt an icy chill crawl up his spine.

With his blue eyes glistening drunkenly, Hutch's face was set in a strange crazed smile. Unmoving, his body was rigid. Cold. And while his manic smile didn't waiver, Hutch looked at Starsky although he was the person he despised most in the world.

Breathing heavily, Starsky was powerless to tear his gaze away from this frightening version of his partner. The one who looked dangerously like his lover but who Starsky knew was not. He just _couldn't_ be. Hutch would never look that terrifying, not even during their worst arguments. And his Hutch certainly had never smiled like that, not with eyes shining brightly with an unfathomable evil.

Then, Hutch let out an abrasive shriek. The noise made Starsky's eardrums ring and left his body aching. It wasn't Hutch screaming, he knew that at once. His partner's mouth was open but the noise escaping him is feral. Inhuman. Although he hadn't heard anything like it before, Starsky immediately recognized the desperation the noise was born from: unimaginable pain.

Unable to endure the noise any longer, Starsky covered his ears with his hands. But blocking out the screaming only amplified a new set of unsettling sounds: the steady pounding of his heart reverberating in perfect tandem with the deep breathes he still struggled to take. As panic overwhelmed him, Starsky knew he needed to stand up. He needed to get as far away from the room as he could. Away from the blood, his screaming partner, and Simon Marcus. Pulling his hands from his ears, Starsky rested the palms of his hands to the floor. Ignoring, the warmth of blood as it enveloped his arms, he balanced his weight and pushed his body up off the floor. But his shaky knees refused to comply, buckling they sent him falling backwards to the floor.

He landed hard on his back, sending a jolt of pain up his spine and droplets of the liquid high into the air, splattering the ceiling and raining back down. Body immobile, Starsky gasped in horror the as he sank helplessly into the blood covered floor. While the liquid was warm, it left him feeling frozen, and with each body part it immersed, he felt an iciness settle into his soul. Feeling an odd sense of calmness, his breathing slowed as the blood reached his throat, rising up the sides of his cheeks, seeping into his mouth and slithering down his windpipe, choking him until he couldn't breathe.

"Starsk."

Starsky heard Hutch's soft voice followed closely by the feeling of someone grasping his arm. He felt his panic rise for a moment, but then blinking furiously, he pulled his gaze from the floor finding Hutch— _his_ Hutch, the soft gruff man he knows better than himself—assessing him dubiously.

"You okay?" Hutch asked.

"Uh… Yeah."

Brain foggy and head pounding, Starsky looked at the floor in confusion, smoothing his hands over his dry chest. He wasn't laying down drowning in blood but standing in the middle of the room. In fact the blood was gone, leaving the room the same as it was when he came stumbling in.

"Come on, Starsky," Hutch whispered, loudly tapping Brian Blackwell's journal in the palm of his hand as he nodded at the door. "You wanted to go, let's go."

Looking at him dumbly, Starsky struggled to understand the words. Fearful questions race through his mind as he remained unable to reconcile this Hutch with the haunting vision he'd just seen.

Why had the other Hutch been screaming? And why was this Hutch—the real Hutch—suddenly so eager to leave when he had been so intent on staying before?

"You sure you're okay, Partner?"

"Yeah."

"You don't look okay."

"I'm…" Dizzy and nauseated, Starsky closed his eyes. Rubbing at his pounding head, he forced a few deep breaths to sooth his body but they only intensify his pain. His neck felt painfully tight and a deep insistent throbbing was settling behind his left brow bone.

"Hey," Hutch said softly, taking a step forward to grasp his arm. "Are you getting a migraine?"

Too sick to answer, Starsky nodded, although he isn't completely sure that's what this pain is. He's experienced severe sporadic headaches before but they usually followed a hit to the head and never had the onset been this sudden or debilitating.

"Sorry, buddy." Hutch grimaced sympathetically, holding on to Starsky tightly and guiding him gently from the room.

Standing by doorway, Marcus silently watched them leave. Starsky did his best to avoid to looking at Marcus, but he couldn't ignore the man's knowing smile or the satisfaction glistening in his dark eyes.

"We will see each other again."

Marcus's chilling farewell echoed in Starsky's mind for hours. But it wasn't until later that night, lying in the darkness of their bedroom, that he realized Marcus hadn't actually said the words.


	6. Chapter Six

**Current Day:**

Sitting in the oversized chair in his psychiatrist's office, Starsky shifted slightly and fought a moan as the cushion pressed into his side. It wasn't that the chair was uncomfortable, but his body was throbbing—aching—from the prolonged upright position, and he was eager to return to the comfort of his Aunt and Uncle's couch and the satisfying numbness promised by his pain medication.

If it were a different situation, he may have been concerned by his fondness for the drugs and the way they made him feel. But it wasn't, and with the image of Simon Marcus firmly imprinted in his memory, he embraced the drugs and the feeling of security they enveloped him in.

Picking at the bandage covering his cheek, he thought about what was hiding underneath—something he had been trying hard to ignore. He didn't remember getting this particular injury—something he was thankful for now—and waking up in the hospital with a bandage on his face he hadn't thought much of it. However days later, when he stiffly ventured to his en-suite bathroom in the middle of the night, Starsky had removed the bandage and been shocked at what he saw. Stiches, too many for his fuzzy brain to comprehend, angry and red displayed prominently on his cheek. The image had frightened him so much that he had made a point of covering the wound ever since. God forbid anyone look at him with the same horrified expression he had seen reflected in the mirror.

Starsky was incredibly lucky—or so his physician had reminded him earlier in the day. After being held captive for nearly a week, found beaten, drugged, and dehydrated, the injuries he had walked away with seemed mild in comparison to what could have been. Fighting a grimace, Starsky realized he _should_ have been dead.

Forcing himself to think of something else, he scanned the room. Taking in the numerous books filling up the bookcases lining the walls underneath the framed diplomas, certifications, and achievements of young woman sitting opposite him he frowned. Kimberlee S. Evans, MD, hardly looked old enough to have a bachelor's degree, let alone half the qualifications her walls boasted. Petite and brunette, her soft smile reminded Starsky of the college-aged girl who worked the coffee cart outside metro.

Biting his lip, he struggled to remember the coffee girl's name; he should know it by now, as Hutch and he—both despising the coffee provided in the squad room—visited her cart nearly every day. Recalling how shamelessly she flirted with his partner he grinned. That was always happening to one of them, and while he had learned to take it in stride, to flirt aimlessly with women who showed any interest, Hutch had not. That was Hutch though, loyal to a fault. His wandering eye had vanished the day he had committed himself to his partner.

"David?" Doctor Evans said softly. "We've been here for nearly an hour and you've yet to say anything."

"I'm just not a very talkative guy," Starsky hedged, picking at the bottom of his frayed cargo shorts.

 _Penny_. That was coffee girl's name. How could he forget something like that? She had a tip jar and he always made jokes about her name and the jar. Old jokes. _Stupid_ jokes.

"That kind of defeats the purpose of our visits," Evans said, "if you aren't going to share anything."

 _Share?_ Averting his eyes to the bookcases, Starsky snorted at the simplistic term. It made it sound like they were old friends swapping good news over a round of Huggy's. It made him think of laughter, fun, and better times with other people—the very opposite of what Simon Marcus had made him feel. No, there would be no _sharing_ where his experiences with Marcus were concerned.

Looking at her framed certificates and diplomas, Starsky realized that Doctor Evans had been carefully chosen because of her qualifications. Young, warm, approachable, she was extremely specialized and worked primarily with victims of violent crimes, rape, and sexual abuse. And although she was qualified to help him work through the trauma, Starsky found himself both frightened and revolted by the idea. Absently he wondered why he had agreed to speak with her at all, but then remembered he hadn't had a choice. Upon being discharged from the hospital Starsky's attending physician made the referral, Dobey had insisted, and Aunt Rosie made the appointment.

Starsky hadn't actively _chosen_ any of this, yet, somehow, he had become accountable for Marcus, Hutch, and all the terrible events that had unfolded, and his only atonement was disclosure. But when faced with recalling and divulging the events which had led him to this moment, he found himself reluctant. It wasn't just the lingering pain and shame connected to his physical injuries or the excruciating disillusionment that would forever impact how he saw Hutch that encouraged him to hold his experiences tight to his chest but something that, after everything he'd endured, should have become an inconsequential detail.

How much about Simon Marcus could Starsky really disclose without being labeled mentally ill—or insane—and jeopardizing his career?

What he had seen, felt, and known during his time with Marcus was scattered but he still knew one thing with unwavering certainty: the power Marcus had, the things he had encouraged to unfold had not been normal and would not be easy to explain. Starsky was excruciatingly aware that revealing too much or too little in the incorrect way would dissolve everything he had worked to achieve, and after all—with everything that had been taken from him—reassembling the pieces of his broken psyche enough to be allowed to return to work, was all he had left.

 _No_. Starsky frowned. He couldn't talk about what Marcus had done, and he certainly had no intention of sharing the kinds of things he'd been through. No matter how qualified Evans was, she was neither trustworthy nor entitled to his pain.

"Okay," Evans said. "If you don't feel up to talking about what brought you here, why don't you tell me a little about yourself?"

"Why?" Starsky scoffed. "Don't you know enough about me already?" He nodded at closed patient file balancing precariously on the arm of her chair. "I'm sure you've got notes on all the dirty details."

"You sound upset," Evans said evenly. "Does it anger you to know that I have access to the details of your life?"

"No." Starsky said, but he felt a flash of anger at the doctor's statement. What gave her the right to rub it in?

"It sounds like it does, but there is nothing in here you should be ashamed of." Grabbing the file, she extended it toward him. "Here look for yourself."

Looking at her dubiously, Starsky hesitated. This may have been his first visit with Doctor Evans but it was far from the first time he had been required to see a psychologist after a work-related trauma. And in his experience there were two types of doctors. The first was harmless; they listen as he recounted what had happened, ask him how he was coping— _fine_ —, if he had a good support system to turn to if he needed— _always yes_ —and after a handful of other standard questions the paperwork would be signed he'd be allowed to return to duty.

The other type of doctor was more frightening than anything Starsky had ever endured on the job. They were the ones whose experiences with disenchanted cops had forever impacted the way they saw others and getting their approval had less to do with the official face-to-face visit and more to do with statistics. They completed their evaluations with a fine-toothed comb and a microscope. Studying the intake form and official report, they often deemed the officer fit or unfit before the official evaluation. And all subsequent interaction was modeled after that premature decision. And while it wasn't easy to change their decision, it could be done. It usually took a few visits and a lot of careful dialogue but it wasn't impossible.

Looking at the offered file, Starsky wondered what kind of psychologist Evans was. Biting his lip he fought a wave of fear; he could handle her if she was the first type, but if she had already decided his fate then that would be the end of his career because he knew the statics of what he had endured were damning, and even he wasn't sure if he was strong enough to walk away from the damage Simon Marcus done.

"Come on," Evans encouraged. "I think you should look at the file. I think it would help you relax."

" _Relax_?" Starsky frowned. How was he supposed to do that? Taking the file, he held it tightly in his hands, denting and creasing the smoothness from the pressure of his fingertips.

"I want you to be comfortable when you speak to me. I think if you know what I know about you and what happened, then that may enable you relax enough to tell me your story."

"So we're telling stories now?"

"It doesn't have to be today. Sometimes it takes time for all of it to become clear." Evans pointed to the file. "Which is why you may want to look at that. It may help you put some of the pieces together."

Dropping his gaze to file, Starsky's eyebrows furrowed. He wanted to open the file. To _know_ what she _knew_. But something stopped him. Whether it was fear of making a wrong move and being entrapped by Evans or the fear of seeing the written details of what had happened to him, Starsky was unsure.

"No," Starsky said softly, handing the file back. "It's okay. I don't need to know what you know about me."

"It's okay if you aren't ready," Evans said, nodding warmly. "Maybe we can look in the file next time."

Xx

 **Months Prior:**

Starsky's migraine didn't subside for days.

He spends too many hours stumbling through his duties at work while popping pain pills that did little to ease the sickness of his body and left his mind fuzzy and tired. Every breath was punctuated by the throbbing in his head and every aroma made his stomach lurch with a sickness he couldn't ignore. And any joyful thoughts associated with the familiar things are quickly chased away, replaced with a sour, rancid odor—death.

Every smell Starsky comes across reminded him of death.

Noticing his partner's lack of appetite and the ashen tone of his skin, Hutch didn't comment but kept a close eye on him. Having had experience with the occasional debilitating headaches himself, he knew how difficult it was to power through the day when all you want to do is die.

Hutch ignored his worry for the first two days; biting his lip and helping his partner as much as he can while watching Starsky struggle with the pain he's pretending doesn't exist. And while Starsky does his best to act normal the pain is overwhelming, the nausea unbearable, and by the end of the second day, Hutch isn't the only one who is aware of how horrible he feels.

"Starsky, if you don't feel better in the morning," Captain Dobey instructed, catching Starsky and Hutch walking to the fifth floor elevator. "Then I want you to say home. You're not doing anyone any good hanging around here like a dying animal."

 _Dying animal._

The words circled in Starsky's mind, eliciting a new wave of nausea. Leaning on the wall, he blew out a shaky breath, rubbing his hands over his face in an effort to ignore the disturbing images flashing in his vision. Bodies too many to count lay in the darkness; bloody and marred they are encircled by a group of shirtless blond men holding wooden torches and chanting a word too mumbled to hear. As deep manic laughter filled his ears, Starsky had a fleeting notion that Simon Marcus was enjoying himself immensely.

"Will do, Cap," Starsky heard Hutch reply, followed by a grunt from their disgruntled superior. "I've been trying to get him to go home all day."

"I'm serious," Dobey said. "Starsky you look like hell. If I would have seen you this morning I would have sent you home. Why don't you go to a Doctor—?"

"It's a migraine, Cap," Starsky said softly. Opening his eyes once more, the laughter disappeared taking the violent images with it. "There's nothing you can do but let it run its course."

Looking between his officers, Dobey assessed them both dubiously before blowing out an exasperated breath and settling his attention to Hutch. "Well, get him home anyway," he said. "Tomorrow, I need an update on the Blackwell case, his family is getting antsy for movement, and so am I."

"Not a lot to report." Hutch shrugged nonchalantly, his eyes glistening with sudden excitement. "We've interviewed a few of the friends he hung with before leaving the city, but none of them have had contact for nearly a year. He spent time at Marcus's property, but Marcus claims he left by his own will over a month ago."

"Do you believe that?" Dobey asked.

"Not for a second," Hutch chuckled. "He's hiding something, I'm sure of it. I was hoping to revisit the compound again this week…"

His heartbeat pounding in his ears, Starsky closed his eyes and listened to Hutch update Dobey in tone bordering exuberance. And with a new series of gory images dancing in his vision, he didn't know which was worse: their inevitable return to the compound or the unsettling notion that Hutch was looking forward to seeing Simon Marcus again.

Xx

It was Starsky's groaning that woke him.

Soft, pained grunts thick with frustrated tears, barely muffled by the pillow Starsky pulled over his head to block out the morning sunshine filtering through the light bedroom curtains. And hearing different whine, higher-pitched but just as insistent, Hutch opened his eyes and stared into piercing brown eyes sparkling with concern.

"Morning, Lucky," Hutch whispered, reaching his hand to graze the top of their troubled Dalmatian's head. "Starsky's okay," he soothed. "It's okay."

Lucky accepted a few more strokes before pulling out of the touch and moving to sit at the other side of the bed. Resting his head, on the mattress by a blanket covered Starsky, he let out a soft whimper.

Rolling over and scooting closer to his suffering partner, Hutch's heart panged with sympathy as he decided to gently take control of the situation. "Hey, Babe," he whispered, pulling at the corner of the pillow to get a better look at Starsky's face. Laying on his side Starsky opened his bloodshot eyes and squinted back. "I think you ought to stay home today," Hutch added softly. Reaching his hand under the blanket, he rubbed his palm up and down his partner's naked side. Starsky's skin was cold, despite the goosebumps and the beads of perspiration peppering his skin. "You look horrible. Going in isn't going to make you any better."

"I'm fine."

"No you aren't. And you heard Dobey, if you go in he's just going to send you home. You need to just stay here, take something that will knock you out, and sleep it off."

Too sick to reply, Starsky squeezed his eyes shut, rolled on his stomach, letting out pained grunt.

"I'm calling you off," Hutch insisted, kissing Starsky's shoulder before tucking him under the blanket and jumping from the bed.

Burrowing his head deeper into his pillow, Starsky heard the soft patter of Hutch's bare feet on the laminate flooring, followed by the soft clicking of Lucky's nails as they left the bedroom. Trying to focus on anything but the hammering in his head, Starsky thought about Hutch and how his change in behavior was as sudden as the pain he felt in his body.

While Starsky had left the Marcus compound physically ill and fatigued, Hutch had left energized. With a glint in his eyes and spring in his step Hutch had not only left unaffected by the oddness they had found but also completely oblivious to the terrifying things Starsky had endured while standing in the room next to him. Things which now, Starsky was not eager to share—because he wasn't exactly sure what he _had_ seen.

A part of him hoped it had all just been a terrible daydream. That he had been doing the very thing Hutch teased him about: letting his imagination, fueled by the all the ghost stories he'd heard over the years, run wild resulting in a hallucination of sorts. Starsky longed to believe this theory but didn't. He couldn't, because while he wasn't sure what he had seen at the Marcus compound, he was certain of what he had _felt_. The pain, confusion, and terror were unlike anything he had ever experienced before, leaving him with a heaviness in his chest he couldn't quite shake. And adding to his uneasiness was Hutch's reaction to Marcus. While Hutch remained determined to ignore all of the folklore surrounding Simon Marcus, he had remained convinced that something criminal was afoot at the Marcus Compound. And determined to find out what, he was focusing on Simon Marcus and the Blackwell case with an enthusiasm bordering obsession.

Exhaling, Starsky fought a wave of nausea as he was overwhelmed by the idea that Hutch was purposely keeping him home, that it was calculated move so he could immerse himself even further into the Brian Blackwell case and feed his curiosity regarding Simon Marcus. Or worse, return to the Simon compound alone.

"Babe," Hutch whispered.

"Hmm?"

"Here." Sitting on the bed, Hutch gathered Starsky's hand and placed two pills in his palm.

"I don't want those," Starsky frowned at the familiar pills. They weren't his, rather the sleeping pills Hutch had been prescribed shortly after his father died. "Just give me some more of that other junk—"

"That other _junk_ hasn't done anything for you in the past two days, and I doubt it'll help you today." Inching an ice pack between Starsky's neck and the pillow, Hutch grabbed the half empty water glass from the nightstand and offered it to his miserable partner. "Come on, Baby," he soothed, smoothing his hand through Starsky's hair. "God, you look like shit. Maybe you shouldn't take them and go see a doctor instead—"

"No. Just… I'll take the damn pills… sleep it off."

Swallowing the pills, Starsky took with a sip of water before handing the glass to Hutch. Closing his eyes he heard the solid clank as Hutch returned the glass to the nightstand, then he felt the weight of his partner's hands massaging his chest and shoulders in an effort to ease the tense muscles and help him ease back into the sleep. While the touch was comforting, it wasn't enough to chase away the feeling of dread in Starsky's stomach. He was too sick to go to work but he wasn't comfortable with Hutch working alone.

"Hey," Starsky mumbled.

"Yeah?"

"I want you to promise me something."

"Anything, babe."

"Don't see Marcus today…" Starsky hesitated, feeling Hutch's body stiffen as he pulled his hands away. "Hutch," he insisted. "I mean it. Don't go out there alone—"

"Fine," Hutch said firmly. Pulling himself from the bed, he moved to the dresser.

Propping himself weakly on his elbows, Starsky watched his displeased partner gather clean clothes from drawers as Lucky looked between them letting out intermitted whimpers of concern. Suddenly, Starsky wondered if the dog felt it too, the horrible distance settling between himself and Hutch. The odd tension that had begun after Hutch's father died that was now transforming into something new; some strange tug-of-war over Simon Marcus and the validity of the man's dangerous power.

"Promise me," Starsky insisted, when Hutch began moving to the master bathroom. "Promise me you won't go there alone."

Back turned, Hutch lingered in the bathroom doorway. "I promise," he said, before shutting the door forcefully, leaving Lucky sitting loyally outside it and Starsky lying in bed wondering if he had any intension of abiding by his word.

Xx

Pulling his beaten up SUV to a stop in front of the barn on the Marcus Compound, Hutch pulled his keys from the ignition. Enclosing them in his hand, he squeezed until the teeth cut into his palm. He shouldn't be here—he had promised Starsky he wouldn't come alone. But as he had left their home and began the drive to Metro, something had come over him. An overwhelming feeling that couldn't be ignored or denied; he had to see Marcus today, there was just no way around it.

There was something innately disturbing about the man. With his dark beady eyes and wide unsettling grin; Marcus looked at people as though he knew something they didn't and with all disappearances he was allegedly responsible for, he probably did. Even though Hutch knew a part of him should be afraid of the man, he wasn't. Something about Marcus was interesting—comforting—and he found himself inexplicably drawn to the man and his compound.

But now, looking at the deserted property, a feeling came overwhelmed Hutch. Being on the compound without Starsky felt almost as wrong as breaking his promise. It was different. Wrong. And worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, Hutch thought about what he should do.

It was early and he had arrived unnoticed. It would be easy for him to restart his car and head back down the dilapidated road which would lead him to back to the highway, the city, and eventually home.

But turning his gaze outside the driver's side window, Hutch was startled from his thoughts. Jumping, he looked wide eyed at the man standing outside of his vehicle and struggled to understand where he had come from.

It was as if Simon Marcus had appeared out of thin air.

Crossing his arms, Marcus watched Hutch intently as he took a breath, gripped the steering wheel tightly, and forced himself to feign courage he didn't quite feel.

"Simon Marcus," Hutch said authoritatively, emerging from his vehicle.

"Detective Hutchinson," Marcus beamed, "I dreamed you would come."


	7. Chapter Seven

**Current Day:**

Sitting in the small boardroom, Chief Ryan looked at the men seated around the table and frowned.

It was small panel for a preliminary disciplinary hearing—only three men including himself—Lieutenant Fargo of IA, who had questioned both Starsky and Hutchinson after Marcus's death; and Captain Dobey. Two others had requested to attend the meeting, Lieutenants Blaine and Huntley, but Ryan had declined. If the circumstances would have been different, he may have considered it, but because of personal nature of Blaine and Huntley's relationships with Starsky and Hutchinson, he wasn't sure they could remain impartial. And glancing up at Captain Dobey, noting his visible fatigue and nervousness, Ryan wondered if he could count on him for the same.

It was no secret the Dobey had a certain fondness for Starsky and Hutchinson, and Ryan—though he would never admit it—would be lying if he said he didn't like them himself. Of course, with arrest records like theirs, they were hard to dislike. Personable enough, their cohesiveness made them a force to be reckoned with. Though their methods were sometimes questionable, they got things done and complaints were minimal.

Until now.

Turning his attention the damning report in front of him, Ryan grimaced. The details of what had unfolded on the Marcus Compound were grizzly, and the thought of punishing Hutchinson for his actions was difficult to accept. But looking at Dobey's grim expression once more, Ryan reminded himself that now was not the time to allow personal ties and loyalties interfere with proceedings or judgements. They had all been touched by the horror and disappointment of what had been done and with a heaviness they would now determine what was to come.

What had unfolded at the Marcus compound had been appalling, and the subsequent decisions promised to be equally bad. The news of Simon Marcus's violent end had been broadcast on the media outlets since the day of his death and the details of Starsky's rescue had followed not long after. Spreading around the city like wildfire, everyone seemed to have an opinion on something they knew little about. Ryan hoped both Starsky and Hutchinson were avoiding the news.

"Gentleman," Ryan said. "Thank you for joining me at this early hour to discuss Detective Sergeant Kenneth Hutchinson's…" he paused, an uneasy expression on his face."…lapse in judgement—"

"Lapse in judgement?" Lieutenant Fargo shook his head. "That's putting mildly. He killed a man then burned his compound to the ground."

"That detail is still being investigated." Dobey scowled. "There is evidence of arson but it's still unclear whether Detective Hutchinson was involved."

Crossing his arms, Fargo snorted. "How could he not be involved? Only three people were found on the property. Marcus, Starsky, and Hutchinson. Marcus was dead. Starsky was brutally incapacitated. That only leaves Hutchinson."

"We don't know that either!" Dobey fumed. "They were the only ones left when the other officers arrived but we don't know who was there before that. It is possible to believe—"

"Gentlemen," Ryan stated firmly. "We are not here to debate what we don't know; we are here to discuss what we do. Quite frankly, I don't really care who started the fire or why. It is a minor detail of much larger picture."

Brows furrowing, Fargo looked at Ryan. How could the man say the fire was unimportant? It had effectively destroyed the Marcus compound, taking the majority of evidence of not only Starsky's assault but also any previous crimes that had taken place.

"Okay," Fargo said. "So it doesn't matter if Hutchinson set the fire. But you want to know what does matter? Detective Hutchinson shot Marcus Simon at pointblank range." Opening a large file in front of him, he examined the contents carefully. "In fact, he emptied his chamber at point-blank range. Which was grossly unnecessary given the results of Marcus's autopsy report. The first bullet incapacitated him, the second one killed him, and, yet, Hutchinson continued firing." He looked at Dobey. "Now why would he feel the need to feel to do that?"

Flattening his palms on the desk, Dobey stared stubbornly for a moment before shaking his head and dropping his gaze to the table. He couldn't explain Hutch's actions any more than he could come up with a reasonable explanation as to why Marcus had targeted Starsky.

"Because he was afraid for his partner," Ryan provided, demanding both men's attention. "I think given the state he found Starsky in, it is reasonable to think that Hutchinson would have been feeling a great deal of fear."

"Yes, but sudden overreactions such as those need to be considered," Fargo challenged. "Was it fear the motivator for the action or something more? We need to be sure there isn't a deeper lingering psychological issue—"

"There is a deeper issue," Dobey said sadly. "He lost his father. It was unexpected and sudden, and although he put on a strong front, Hutchinson has been struggling ever since." He lifted his hand helplessly. "Obviously."

"Well, now he's gonna lose Starsky too," Fargo said.

"You don't know that." Dobey glared. "None of us knows what's going to happen here. Don't pretend like you do."

"Yes, I do," Fargo assured.

"What are you saying?"

"What I'm saying is that there is a larger issue in this room. One that everyone has been dancing around so proficiently. Starsky and Hutchinson have a secret, one that very well could have impacted Hutchinson's behavior and leads us to consider a very important question."

Face contorting with shock, Dobey gaped at Fargo. While he couldn't deny the reality of what was about to be disclosed, he was floored Ryan would use it for ammunition. The nature of Starsky and Hutch's personal relationship was not news to anyone. It was a minor detail, activity overlooked by their superiors and ignored by most of their peers—mostly because it didn't seem to adversely affect their professional relationship or how they conducted themselves during working hours. But looking at Fargo, and the glint of sadness in his eyes, Dobey knew what he was thinking.

Did Hutch kill Marcus acting as a detective defending his injured partner or did he act as an angry spouse seeking revenge on the person who had hurt the man he loved?

"I was thinking the same," Ryan said knowingly. "I believe the elephant in this room is the media and how they have latched on to this case. This has been a PR nightmare. Detective Hutchinson slayed a monster of a grandiose scale and the media outlets are branding him a hero. Ugliness aside of what happened that day, we can't forget that Simon Marcus was a serial murder, something we've suspected for years but only know now because of Hutchinson's actions. And while I think discipline is unavoidable in this situation, condemnation is too extreme. We need to be very mindful of how we proceed in the interests of not only Starsky and Hutchinson, but also the department."

Fargo sighed disapprovingly.

"Are you going to have an issue proceeding with these term in mind?" Ryan Frowned.

"No," Fargo snorted. "I won't because I agree with you." He glanced at Dobey. "Look, I know you both think I dislike Starsky and Hutchinson. But that isn't true. I would like nothing more to believe Hutchinson actions toward Marcus were innocent as everyone is forcing themselves to believe. But I can't." Glancing down at the file in front of him, he pushed it across the table to Ryan. "I have a file full of details we would be remiss to ignore."

"Like what?" Dobey demanded.

"Like how, prior to this even, Hutchinson made repeated solitary visits to the Marcus compound—"

"He was investigating the Blackwell case!" Dobey fumed, slamming his fist on the table. "Those visits were done on an official capacity and are defensible. Why are you so intent on making this look like something it isn't—"

"And why are you so intent on protecting him?" Fargo challenged. "Marcus wasn't an exception, Dobey, he was a symptom. You're blind if you don't see that— _shit_ , you did! You placed Hutchinson on administrative leave days before Starsky disappeared, so don't pretend like you didn't see the signs, and don't be angry because I have to ask the difficult questions now. All want to know is what happens next time? Okay, you slap him on the wrist and you put him back on streets, but what happens the next time some perp makes a wrong move, does Hutchinson empty a clip on him too—"

"Gentlemen," Ryan said, his voice dangerously calm. "We are on the same team here. This is collaborative meeting, not a debate why Hutchinson did what he did. While it is true that the motivation of what has been done directly impacts how we may proceed but we also must accept that we may never have a satisfactory explanation. We don't know what we don't know, and the question becomes: how should be proceed with what we do?"

Giving up on their argument, Dobey rubbed a hand over his face and Fargo intently examined the files in front of him.

"Suspension," Dobey said, exasperatedly throwing his hand up in the air. "I think that suspending Hutchinson is a given. He should have a psych evaluation before returning to duty. But I don't think he should lose his career." He glared at Fargo. "This was an exception, not the rule. I have known Hutchinson for years. He's one of the best men I have, and he's not the loose cannon you believe he is."

"Noted," Ryan said. He looked expectantly at Fargo. "And what would your recommendations be?"

"Minimally… I would advise Detective Hutchison be placed on continual suspension, return contingent upon a work release from a department psych, as well as continual psychiatric evaluations for the next year. You cannot throw him back in the job if he passes one evaluation; we need to follow up him, to ensure this… error in judgement wasn't the first of many."

Rubbing as hand under his chin, Ryan made a series of quick notes on the paper in front of him. "And what about Starsky?" he asked. "Did he give a usable statement? Anything that could be used against Hutchinson?"

"No." Fargo shook his head. "Starsky said he didn't recall how he was taken, what had happened during his time at the Marcus compound, or how he had been rescued. I attempted to talk about Hutchinson's behavior prior to his abduction but Starsky wouldn't say a thing." Fargo shook his head sadly. "It's really too bad; Starsky was a hell of a cop. Full of potential, he could have gone far; it's hard to see him leave the department this way."

"Detective Starsky's future is fragmented at best," Ryan said seriously. "If and when he'll be able to return to duty remains unseen, as does his ability to recover from the trauma he's endured."

Xx

 **Months Prior:**

Following Simon Marcus, Hutch didn't say a word.

But Marcus remained the epitome of composure as he led Hutch past the farmhouse and the buildings and to the beginning of an orchard. Walking through the trees, Hutch frowned. While he had thought Marcus was growing apples, a closer look disproved his assumption. Lines of trees stretched as far as he could see, growing walnuts and an amazing variety of fruits—apples, pears, cherries, peaches, plums, apricots—each tree was lush and bountiful, thriving with no concern of soil or climate.

Blinking furiously, Hutch had a fleeting thought that his mind was playing tricks on him. There was just no way, given the recent drought and the specialized conditions needed for each individual tree, that such a variety of fruits could be grown on the property—nor could fruit and nut trees be grown in such close proximity without harming one another. They were nearly halfway through the orchard before Hutch realized what he was seeing was real.

"I live off the land," Marcus said, as though the statement could explain away the maddening impossibility of what Hutch was seeing. "I have been fortunate throughout the years and the harvest remains bountiful."

"I see that," Hutch said evenly. "It's quite an impressive group you've been able to sustain."

Marcus smiled but didn't comment further. Outstretching his hand, he indicated a path on an impending hill.

Coming to the top of the hillside, Hutch inhaled deeply, considering the compound below. There was no denying the property was beautiful. The lush greenery and simplicity of the buildings highlighted the contrast between the life sustained the compound and the devastation of the dirt road he had traveled to get there. And in that moment, Hutch felt a calmness envelope him, a sense of peace, a security he had not enjoyed for a long time. Not since his father's untimely death had he felt such respite from the deep emotional despair or the aching anger that had settled into his soul.

"You do not fear me in the way that others do," Marcus said matter-of-factly. "Why?"

Startled by the bluntness of the question, Hutch turned to face Marcus and shrugged. "What makes you so sure I'm not," he probed. "Maybe I am, but I'm just good at hiding it."

"You _are_ good at hiding yourself," Marcus agreed with a slight nod. "But you are not veiling your cynicism as far as my name is concerned, and you have been quite vocal with your beliefs regarding my power."

Evaluating Marcus suspiciously, Hutch hesitated. The man's absolute tone coupled with his piercing gaze was unnerving, and he felt his previous ease melt as he considered his own response.

"I just don't see the point of turning regular people into sinister characters," Hutch said finally. "You are a man, Simon Marcus, just like me. Just like countless others. The only power you have is what broken people chose to give to you."

Brows raising, Marcus looked at Hutch, his eyes glistening with satisfaction. "And are you fortunate enough to consider yourself unbroken?"

"Yes."

"No. You say you are, but you are not. I have been dreaming of you for quite a long time."

Hutch's face hardened as he felt a surge of anger. A moment ago he had the upper hand in the conversation and now it seemed Marcus was headed somewhere he didn't want to go. Although his demeanor was peaceful and unthreatening, Marcus was making threats. Saying he dreamed of him; what kind of gullible person would possibly believe claims like that? If he was trying to initiate a psychological cat and mouse game, Hutch had no intention of participating.

"I'm sure you have," Hutch said bitterly. His features darkening, he took a threatening step forward. "And I'm sure that's the same bullshit line you use on everybody." Sticking his index finger inches away from Marcus's nose he scowled. "But it isn't going to work on me. I see what you're doing, and I see who you are and I'm going to get you Marcus, I'm going to find out what you did to Blackwell then I'm going to put you away."

"No."

" _No_?" Hutch scoffed.

"That is not what fate wants."

"What the _hell_ do you know about fate?"

"I dream of what is to come," Marcus said, his tone patient, as though he was explaining a difficult concept to a small child. "I dream of all of the people who cross my path. Fate reaches out and advises me of what must be. In my dreams, she explained how your brokenness would lead you here and how I would make you whole again. I dreamed of this." Extending his arms, he indicated at the lush, vast property, then nodded at Hutch. "And I dreamed of you."

"You're full of shit!" Taking a step back, Hutch fought a wave of uncontrollable anger. What gave Marcus the right to play his mind games? To stand before him and ramble off absolutes about fate and dreams. Turning, he forced a deep breath, rubbing his hands across his face. Marcus was obviously very mentally ill, and, though irritated, Hutch realized dismissing the man's delusional dialogue would do little to help him find Blackwell. If he wanted answers he needed to play along. "Okay," he said evenly. "Then tell me what you dreamed about Brian Blackwell?"

Marcus didn't provide an immediate answer. Assessing Hutch calmly, he looked at him as though the question was the most absurd thing he'd ever heard.

"What's the matter?" Hutch challenged. "Are you having trouble remembering the details?"

"I do not share my dreams with others. What I dreamed about Brother Brian is between him, myself, and fate."

"Do you want to know what I think?" Hutch asked, closing the gap between them once more. "I think that you won't tell me because you don't know. You can't share the details of something that didn't happen."

Watching Marcus carefully, Hutch was disappointed when his words did little to shake the man. He had expected Marcus to look momentarily threatened or at least see a glimpse of guilt that was hidden behind the calm man's bravado. Instead, Marcus held his gaze, his dark eyes shining with an unnerving amount of joy.

"Would you like me to share the things I dreamed of you with another?" Marcus tilted his head and smirked. "I think not."

"Is that a _threat_? What could you possibly know about me that I wouldn't want you to share? I don't have secrets that I'm afraid people will discover."

"You say you don't but that this a lie. You carry the scars of things you have endured deep within you. The scars of dark things, unspeakable things. You say the memory of the past does not live inside you but it does."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Because I dreamed of you," Marcus said with a chilling grin. "I dreamed of when you father died and how badly his absence is affecting you. How you sat on his grave and cried. You cried for him and everything he was. And you cried for yourself and all the things you are not."

" _What?"_ Hutch whispered dryly. Agitation swept over him as he wondered if he had heard the man right.

"I have felt your pain. The pain of the things you carry with you, and I have heard the screaming you push down deep inside for fear of the condemnation of others…"

Hutch's body tingled with discomfort, wrapping his arms around himself he took a step back, then another, and another. How the hell could Marcus have known about his father? He couldn't have known.

He _didn't_ know.

"That's not true," Hutch lied, his voice sounding small and disbelieving. He felt naked, as Marcus's piercing gaze didn't waver. "You don't anything about me... You can't possibly know anything about—"

"Now you can see why I chose to keep my knowledge a secret," Marcus stated evenly. "How would it make you feel if I shared this knowledge with a stranger? The things you will not even confide to your dear Starsky…"

At the mention of Starsky, Hutch's anger returned. "Shut up!" he exploded. "You think you're so fucking smart? That you can intimidate me by standing here and spewing random information about me and my father? Yeah, my father died, but it isn't the big _fucking_ secret you think it is. Obituaries are public information and everyone cries at their father's funerals—"

"Not for the reasons you cried," Marcus disagreed calmly.

Anger intensifying, Hutch turned in place, exhaling a deep breath as he struggled to keep a rein on his temper. It wouldn't do him—or further their case—any good if he assaulted the man over a few unsettling statements. While Hutch Marcus couldn't possibly know the things he was alluding to, his heart was pounding and voice inside of him was screaming the opposite.

How could Marcus have known he returned to his father's grave after the service? How he had sat cross-legged and in the rain and cried over the very things Marcus had said?

He _couldn't_ have, yet he did.

"I don't know what you _dreamed_ about me but you were wrong," Hutch said firmly. "You're _wrong_."

"You are not ready to accept the truth. That is fine. I knew it would be so; fate has allotted more time for you. But in the end you will return to me. You will hear the call and you will come."

Xx

"Where have you been?"

Pushing through the front door of their beach house, Hutch was taken aback at how strong Starsky's voice sounded; it was vastly different from the hoarse weak tone his partner had forced out that morning.

Sitting on the tan sectional in the center of their living room, Starsky muted the TV and looked at Hutch expectantly.

"Nowhere," Hutch lied as Lucky ran to greet to him.

"Nowhere? You leave for work at the crack of dawn and now you're back, long after dark, and you expect me to believe you spent all day nowhere?"

"Yes."

Biting his lip guilty, Hutch averted his eyes. Crouching, he acknowledged the bouncy Dalmatian with a proper pat and a scratch behind the ears, silently hoping Starsky wouldn't press the subject. He wasn't ready to think about his secret meeting with Marcus, the details of which he never intended to share—not after breaking the promise he had made that morning. The meeting with Marcus had left him feeling numb and with a tiredness seeping into his body he longed to go to bed and sleep for the remainder of the week.

"Man, he sure loves you," Starsky said, watching the dog's tail wag with increased exuberance.

"That's because I was the one who saved him. We bonded."

"Well, I'm the one who feeds him. You'd think with as many table scraps I've given him, he'd be bonded with me too." Watching Lucky turn in tight circles as his partner scratched him, Starsky smiled. "I swear, you are the only person in the world he cares about. He spent the whole day parked in front of the door, barking at nothing and waiting for you."

"He barked?" Hutch asked, feeling oddly suspicious of the dog's action.

Lucky _never_ barked, at least not without provocation. It was one of the reason why the rescue dog had settled so easily into their lives—well, that and his ability to easily adapt to Starsky and Hutch's ever-changing work schedule.

"Yeah. It was weird. It was why I woke up when I did. At first I thought I was dreaming but it was him. God, he was loud too; he really thought somebody was in the backyard—"

"But there wasn't?" Hutch asked insistently, nervousness was building in his stomach. Why would Lucky bark today of all days? The very day Hutch had visited Marcus and the man had recounted his dreams.

"Nah. He must have been feeling on edge. Or maybe he wasn't as loud as I thought. I wasn't exactly in it at the time either. Man, those fucking pills, I don't even know how you can take them and still not sleep a wink. I still feel out of it. My brain's foggy and feel tired and numb, but I didn't…" Starsky paused, yawning tiredly.

Peering at his partner, Hutch noted the color had returned to his cheeks, the pain induced dullness had faded from his eyes, and his easy demeanor had returned. Blinking sleepily at him, Starsky looked heathy and the comforting sight was enough to chase away his nervous energy and sooth the lingering apprehension the afternoon had left behind.

"Well, adverse tired numbness aside, they certainly did you some good. You look better than you have in days." Standing, Hutch wiped at the fresh dog hair covering his jeans and made his way toward the kitchen. Pausing behind the sectional, he leaned over, tilted Starsky's chin up and placed and upside down kiss on his half open mouth. "You eat already?"

"Yeah," Starsky smiled, wrinkling his nose. "There's pizza on the counter."

"Of course there is. I don't know why I even asked."

"Hey, you should be proud of me." Starsky grinned. "There's vegetables on that pizza and I didn't even need you to tell me to order it that way."

Dropping another kiss on his partner, Hutch pulled himself upright. "Well, David Starsky," he said lightly. "I never thought I'd see the day."


	8. Chapter Eight

**Current Day:**

Laying on the couch in his Aunt and Uncle's living room, Starsky stared lazily at the flat screen TV. Finding most of the midday programming either too boring or irrelevant to catch his attention, he quickly resorted to flipping endlessly through the channels, filling the room with one-second-soundbites of everything from public access to children's programming.

Under normal circumstances he would be itching to lose himself in a reality show marathon or an extended viewing of ESPN—as his work schedule often left little time for TV—but after nearly two weeks of parking himself on the couch, he's sick of watching scripted melodramas and he's had his fill of loud, opinionated sportscasters.

"Davy," Uncle Al said gruffly, leaning on the entry to the room. "Will you stop flipping and settle on something already? You're gonna break the TV."

Starsky scoffed at the request but complied. And finally settling on a movie channel and an old campy horror movie he relaxed further into the plush couch cushions.

Looking in-between the TV and his nephew, Al sighed; he was becoming increasingly worried about his nephew. While it was much too soon for Starsky to be jumping back into his normal routines, his lack of awareness and interest in the things around him were concerning—as was his continued avoidance of Hutch.

When Al and Rosie had first brought him home, Starsky had been exhausted and emotional; everything they did seemed to set him off into either a fit of rage or tears. But it wasn't like that now and hadn't been since his first visit with his psychiatrist.

His nephew had been through hell, Al knew that, and he hadn't anticipated that he would spend a couple weeks resting then, suddenly, bounce back to his old self—as though nothing had ever happened. But the changes in Starsky's personality were alarming. He had become distant and withdrawn. Clinging to his pain meds, he didn't talk much, wasn't sleeping well, and spent most of his time alone. Day after day he laid on the couch, his dull eyes set on TV shows Al was certain he wouldn't remember watching.

But, at least, he was looking better.

Starsky's coloring had almost returned to normal; his bruises were starting fade, and with the exception of the cut on his cheek—which was still hidden under a bandage—his scratches had lost their painful redness, a promising sign that, they too, would eventually disappear. The only lingering injuries were his broken ribs and little could be done to do to ease the pain of those or the haunted hollowness that had settled in his vibrant blue eyes.

While he was getting the rest his doctor had prescribed and attending his psychologist appointments, Al suspected Starsky wasn't dealing with the reality of what happened but ignoring it instead.

"Hey Davy, I know you're still healing but how about you think about moving' around today, huh? Maybe get out for a short walk or—"

"Um…" Starsky hedged, his fingers picking at a growing hole in the bottom of his cargo shorts.

"Or how about you think about coming down to the lot? Socialize a little with the guys. Maybe if you feel up to it, you could wash a car or two and re-live the glory days of your youth."

Starsky frowned. The idea sounded horrible—not only because he had despised car washing duty as a teen—the thought of venturing outside, away from the protection of the house and the comfort of the couch, was enough to make him break out into a cold sweat. Being out in public meant engaging with people and feigning a normalcy he didn't feel—something he didn't even begin to know how to do.

"Come on," Al coaxed. "You gonna tell me you got more important things to do than spend a little quality time with your old Uncle. Besides, I got a nice big couch in my office. You get tired or sore there isn't anything you can't do there that you've been doing here." His face softened. "Come on, Davy. It'll be good for you to get out this house. Do something other than hide from everything that's happened."

Starsky wanted to object to the statement—to grin at his uncle and tell him he wasn't hiding at all—but he had a sinking feeling that Al already knew the truth, and dropping his eyes to the dark carpet his eyes welled up and a tightness in his throat prevented him from saying a word.

"Well, you think about it anyway," Al said, his voice softening as he realized his approach had failed. "It doesn't have to be today or tomorrow. The shop will be there when you're ready." Hiding his disappointment, he watched Starsky a moment longer before sighing and leaving him to watch TV.

 _"I will send outlanders amongst you: a man and a woman. And these outlanders will be unbelievers and profaners of the holy."*_

The abrasive dialogue of the preteen preacher filters out of the speakers, and closing his eyes, Starsky pushed the conversation with his Uncle to the back of mind, adding it to the ever growing pile of things he isn't ready to think about.

" _And the man will sorely test you, for he has great power, even greater than that of the Blue Man!"*_

As the movie dialogue continued, Starsky felt a comforting numbness overcome his body and mind, and slipping deeper into relaxation, the remote falls from his hand. It tumbled to the floor with a thud, but the sound seemed far away to Starsky, as his mind wandered freely and he settled in-between consciousness and sleep.

It was a fantastic feeling—an odd mixture of relaxation and detachment—one he'd grown a little to accustom to over the past few weeks. And regretfully, he realizes that this is one of the last times he'll feel this way. His pain meds are quickly dwindling and his doctor already refused to sign off on more refills. Soon he'll have to combat his lingering injuries with aspirin or ibuprofen alone—something that will to do little to ease the ache of his healing bones and nothing to help avoid the vivid memories he's intent on ignoring.

 _"And just as he was offered up unto Him, so shall be the unbelievers!"*_ Starsky heard the teenager on the TV continue, but behind closed eyes and in the depths of his memory it is Simon Marcus who mouths the words, and Starsky is laying at his feet, battered and broken on the damp cold darkness of the underground bomb shelter.

 _"Make sacrifice unto Him! Bring Him the blood of the outlanders!"_ * Marcus's miming continued momentarily before being silenced by the strength of Starsky's memory.

 _"Simon, Simon, Simon..."_ The low melodic chanting filled the darkness of the room.

Struggling to pull his frightened gaze from Marcus's face, Starsky tried to scream but remained painfully quiet. Marcus's power was too strong, his hold too deep, and he is powerless to move or make a sound. Gasping for breath, his body throbs with pain, and his chest tightens with panic as Starsky feels Marcus inside of him, caressing his soul and mind without moving from where he towers above.

 _"Simon! Simon! Simon!"_

The chanting is louder now, a chorus of men's voices repeat his captor's name with unsettling force. Squeezing his eyes shut, Starsky takes a deep sobbing breath. Tears slip freely down his cheeks as he screamed for Hutch to come for him—to save him from the horrifying things Marcus intends.

 _"You call for the one who will not save you_ ," Marcus said calmly, and the chorus of unrecognizable voices fade away, leaving one man purposefully repeating the word.

 _"Simon. Simon. Simon."_

The deep familiar voice made Starsky's heart lurch, shattering any hope he has of being saved.

 _"You call for someone who is already present,"_ Marcus whispered, his eyes twinkling with glee. _"And he has no intension of saving you."_

 _"Simon. Simon. Simon."_ The lone chanter continued, moving to stand beside Marcus.

And looking up at the pair of men who intended to kill him—Simon Marcus and Hutch—Starsky abandoned what was left of his courage and gave way to deep silent sobs.

Pulling himself from the memory, Starsky's eyes snap open as he lurched forward on the couch. His body protested the movement, sending shooting jolts of pain through his ribcage and down to his hips, but he doesn't care. The dialogue of the TV is echoing in the room, bringing back more unbearable memories and filling him with intense panic. Leaning over, he reached for the remote on the floor. Barely touching it with his fingertips he lost his balance and spilled from the couch, landing on his stomach with a thud. His eyes tear up on impact as he let out a deep groan, and grasping the remote in a shaky hand he finally silenced threatening dialogue of the preteen cornfield preacher and his group of captive followers.

Picking a horror movie was stupid, and allowing himself to fall asleep to unsettling dialogue certain to trigger a nightmare was worse. How could he have been so dumb?

Rolling on his back with grimace, he laid on the floor for a while. Gripping the TV remote in both of his hands, he closed his eyes, took a series of breaths, and waited for the aching in his ribs to subside.

"David?" Aunt Rose's worried voice asked. "What on earth are you doing?"

Opening his eyes, Starsky found his Aunt, her kind face contorted in an odd mixture of confusion and concern, looking down at him. The sight of her standing over him is too much like Marcus for him to feel comfortable, but moving now wouldn't allow him to hide the pain reverberating in his body. Instead, he struggled to control his anxiety and focused on taking normal breaths.

"Are you alright?" Rose asked.

"Yes."

"What are you doing on the floor?"

"Uh..." Starsky hesitated, unsure if he should tell her he fell but certain he should omit his panic over the powerful memory. "I just... thought it would be comfortable."

His words are quiet and forced, they sound more like a question than a statement, and Starsky struggling to act normal immediately knows Rosie doesn't believe him.

"Well, it doesn't look very comfortable," she challenged skeptically. "Are you sure you're telling me the truth?"

"Yes."

This lie came more readily, and Starsky smiles, reminded of a few other instances where he'd said the same lie, in the same room—not laying on the floor of course.

 _"David, are you sure you studied for that test?"_

 _"Yes."_

 _"David, you swear you didn't sneak out in the car last night?"_

 _"Yes."_

 _"David, you know you don't have to be a cop. There are other ways of honoring your father."_

 _"Yes."_

"Well, as long as you're sure."

Starsky mouthed the words as Aunt Rose responded, and a warmth rushed through him as he embraced the comfort of her predictable response.

Good solid Aunt Rose. Gentle and caring she'd never hurt him. Her love and intentions, conveyed by homemade meals and unearthed Mickey Mouse night lights, were pure. She only wanted him to feel better. And laying on the floor staring up at her, Starsky did feel better. The violent aching in his body calmed to bearable throb and his Aunt's maternal presence was enough to chase away most of the horror of any nightmare he could possibly have.

"Don't lay there too long," Rose added softly, her face frozen with unexpressed concern. "It isn't good for your ribs."

"My ribs are feeling pretty good."

"All the more reason to not lay there too long. Those pills will wear off and you'll be hurting later."

"I'll be fine." Starsky smiled, peering up at her. "Just fine."

Rose stared at him a moment longer, before sighing and moving to the hallway. "Oh." She hesitated in place, looking at Starsky once more. "I know we promised not to push you, but have you spoken to Ken yet?"

Squeezing his eyes shut, Starsky opened his mouth and hoped for another lie, but he doesn't have it in him. Not with the nightmare image of Hutch and Marcus standing side-by-side still lingering in his mind.

"No."

"Well, honey, it's been weeks, don't you think it's time you let him know how you're doing?"

"I will."

The response is automatic—knee jerk—and as he watched his Aunt shake her head sadly and disappear down the hallway, Starsky wondered if he would ever have the courage to face Hutch again.

Xx

"You're looking better."

The statement halted Hutch in his tracks, and hesitating, in the middle of the lobby of metro, he turned just in time to be wrapped in a half hug by Lucas Huntley.

"That's debatable," Hutch groaned as Huntley held him by the shoulders and looked him up and down.

"You look good, kid. Rested. Have you been getting more sleep these days?"

Stepping out of the touch, Hutch pressed his lips in firm line and shook his head. Though he was appreciative of the intensions his mentor's lie was born from, he wasn't thrilled by the words. The truth of the matter was he looked just as terrible as he felt, and he didn't need anyone to tell him otherwise.

But at least Luke had been kind enough not to fixate on his sudden appearance at Metro, which was more than Hutch could say for everyone else. Scanning the lobby, he stifled an overwhelming wave of guilt as he struggled to ignore the piercing gazes of countless scattered officers.

"I'm starting to feel like I'm some sort of ghost, the way people are looking at me," he said.

"Ah, that'll ease in time," Luke assured. Squeezing Hutch's neck, he pulled him close and guided him down the halls to the waiting line of elevators. "It's just the drama of it all. You know people, they don't know the truth so they got to create their own. Besides, just wait until you get back on the job, that shock will fade and this will all become old news."

"Yeah," Hutch sighed half-heartedly.

Though intended to sooth Luke's words stung, making Hutch acutely aware that he hadn't spoken to Starsky in weeks. With aching regret setting into the pit of his stomach, he briefly wondered if he or his partner would ever be fortunate enough to consider Marcus Simon old news.

"So what are you doing around here today?" Luke asked. "Didn't think you were due for another couple weeks."

"I came to talk to Dobey, and I wanted to grab a couple of things out of my desk—"

"What!" Stopping mid-stride Luke pulled away from Hutch and threw frustrated hand in the air. "I thought Ryan settled on suspension and a psych evaluation, don't tell me he kicked you to the curb!"

"Nah," Hutch assured. "Ryan gave me the minimum punishment he could. But Dobey wants to talk some stuff over and I wanted to see if they've had any luck recovering Starsky's car—"

"And grab stuff from your desk." Lingering in front of the elevator doors, Luke considered Hutch seriously for a moment. "Why do I get the feeling that you're lying to me. That it didn't matter what Ryan had to say because you've already canned yourself."

"Luke," Hutch hedged, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'm just taking the space. Getting my head together. Isn't that what everyone has been telling me do for months?" Though the statement was true, it wasn't the whole truth. But it's neither the time nor place to be discussing his return with Luke, a man whom remained endlessly protective over him and his behavior.

Luke always meant well—Hutch knew that, but he also knew that Luke had a problem seeing situations clearly when it came to the people he held dear. When Luke felt someone he loved was being threatened, all impartial thought would be quickly abandoned in order to fiercely defend and dismiss negative comments—no matter how warranted. And Hutch didn't want to be comforted, to have his actions dismissed with justifications and palatable excuses. It wouldn't change the truth; what had happened was inexcusable, and there was only one person who could help ease his guilt now. But he was ignoring phone calls and hiding himself away in the safety of his Aunt and Uncle's house.

"Then what's the problem?" Luke asked, unconvinced.

"The problem is..." Struggling with a proper lie Hutch paused.

The problem was that everything felt incredibly wrong and foreign with Starsky's voluntary absence, and while there was a good amount of guilt and pain he was able to process on his own, a larger portion would plague Hutch until Starsky decided to speak with him again.

The problem was that Starsky was his partner, his best friend, _his husband_ , and Hutch had readily betrayed him in every way imaginable, and because of that Hutch didn't trust himself to come back. How could he be entrusted to protect strangers if he couldn't even see clearly enough to protect he person he loved most?

And the most unsettling problem of them all was that it didn't seem right that Hutch was able to return to work as though nothing happened while Starsky's ability to return to the department remained so uncertain.

But neither eager nor willing to share any of those problems with Luke, Hutch settled on something less important.

"The problem is that!" Hutch pointed at a small group of uniform officers standing paces away, casting secret glances and whispering amongst themselves. "They don't even have the decency to hide their curiosity, and I'm barely inside the building. How I am supposed to come back knowing everyone is whispering stories about me behind my back?"

Crossing his arms, Luke frowned. "Come on, pal, you don't care about that."

"Yes, I do."

"No, you don't."

Grabbing Hutch by the shoulder, Luke propelled him to the privacy of a waiting elevator.

Leaning up against the wall, Hutch crossed his arms protectively and watched Luke press the button to the fifth floor before turning to assess him expectantly.

"You're saying that because of Starsky," Luke said matter-of-factly. "Because of what happened to him and where he stands now."

And finding himself stuck in the conversation he had been intent on avoiding, Hutch closed his eyes and shook his head; he had intension on saying anything more on the subject.

"It isn't your fault," Luke continued. "I know you got a real martyr complex but what happened wasn't all you... There were other things going on. I mean, _Jesus_ , losing your Dad and then that monster starts crawling around in your head like that?"

Despite his aversion to the topic, Hutch found himself surprisingly grateful for what Luke was trying to do. But that didn't make it any easier to think about or explain—it just wasn't that simple. He couldn't return with a slap on the wrist and promise to never do it again. It wasn't enough—not for what he knew about Marcus now, and certainly not for what he had allowed the man to do to his partner.

Coming to a stop, the elevator bell rung and moments later the doors slid open, revealing Luke and Hutch to a whole new group of staring officers. Snorting sadly, Hutch looked between the officers and Luke before pulling himself off the elevator wall.

"I'm not coming back alone, Luke," he said, his voice low and firm. "I can't. Not after what happened. I either come back to the department with Starsky or I don't come back."

Not waiting for a response, Hutch strode pass the group of officers and down the hall to Dobey's office, leaving Luke shaking his head in disappointment.

"He isn't coming back, pal," Luke whispered sadly. "And you're just gonna throw your career away over misplaced guilt."

 **Author Note:**

The following dialogue isn't mine:

"I will send outlanders amongst you: a man and a woman. And these outlanders will be unbelievers and profaners of the holy."*

"And the man will sorely test you, for he has great power, even greater than that of the Blue Man!"*

"And just as he was offered up unto Him, so shall be the unbelievers!"

"Make sacrifice unto Him! Bring Him the blood of the outlanders!"

I borrowed it from Children of the Corn, credit goes to George Goldsmith and, of course, Stephen King.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Months Prior:**

Sleep didn't come easy to Hutch, not that it had for a while.

Sleep had always been somewhat of a problem—for both Starsky and Hutch— but it was par for the course for the career they had chosen. Intense and demanding, their work hours were often unpredictable. Dayshifts would blur into nightshifts and stakeouts consisting of terrible food and too much caffeine, making the pair irritable and nauseated. Seconds turned into minutes, hours, and sometimes even days, and, eventually, sleep deprivation would kick in, overwhelming them with an odd numbness and a distant sensation, leaving them feeling as though they were completely removed from the rest of the world.

Yet, even during those times—finally returning home fatigued and struggling to come down from a stomach churning combination of caffeine and adrenaline—Hutch couldn't recall sleep being so unattainable—something that had only intensified since his return from Duluth a week after his father's funeral.

The last time Hutch had slept soundly was the night his sister had called advising him of their father's sudden death. He still remembered groggily reaching for his phone, how his stomach lurched as soon as he saw the familiar name and number on the caller ID. Something was terribly wrong, he had known it before even answering the call. And even as he listened to his sobbing sister, he had a fleeting thought that what was happening wasn't real. People like his father didn't die; they were much too cantankerous to.

But it was real; Richard Hutchinson had suffered a heart attack, dying on the floor of his home office before the ambulance could arrive.

Hutch still struggled to recall catching the red-eye flight to his hometown or the terrible argument he and Starsky had prior to his departure. Starsky had been insistent on accompanying him to Duluth and Hutch had refused. Too shell-shocked by the notion his father was dead and too numb to worry about how his partner would be received by his remaining family members and friends, Hutch had insisted Starsky stay behind. And eventually—begrudgingly—Starsky had agreed.

Arriving in Duluth alone Hutch had been both relieved and saddened; somehow Starsky's absence made things easier and more difficult at the same time. Easier because Hutch didn't have to avoid his partner's inevitable pressing questions about his strained relationship with his family. And more difficult because standing silently among his family members, all who were still intent on ignoring the darkness of his father's secrets, Hutch had never felt more alone. A feeling that lingered long after he returned home to Starsky with an new prescription for sleeping pills—courtesy of a doctor at his father's medical practice—and an overwhelming sense of brokenness settling in his heart and soul.

Restlessly, Hutch tossed and turned with as much care as he could manage—as not to wake his slumbering partner—before eventually settling on his back. The sleeping pills did little to entice him to sleep and, once again, he resorted to staring up at the empty darkness of the bedroom ceiling. Resting his arms behind his head, he listened to the comforting sound of Starsky's soft steady breaths. His partner's sudden sickness and intense headache had ebbed days ago and for that Hutch was grateful, not only for the ease of Starsky's pain but also for the relief that came with not having his own insomnia on display.

It was easier to feign sleep when your partner was unconscious and with Starsky waking sporadically due to his illness, it was harder for Hutch to lie to him in the morning. Starsky was worried, not that Hutch could blame him, but he couldn't stand being the focus of his partner's constant attention and watchful eye. All Starsky's worry did was highlight Hutch's grief, making it more difficult to contend with, and Hutch didn't want to think about his father and the painful memories lingering in the back of his mind. He wanted to think about the Blackwell case and busting Simon Marcus.

Pulling himself from the bed and padding to the living room, Hutch realized regretfully that the two things had somehow ended up intertwined.

It was impossible. Marcus couldn't know what he claimed to, because not many people did. And as the days passed and the shock and uneasy fear Hutch had felt during his discussion with Marcus at his compound faded, he found himself dismissing Marcus's words altogether.

Simon Marcus was a crafty and inventive man—he had known that from the start—using cleaver intimidation tactics that fit nicely into the urban legends the city had chosen to create around him, Marcus convinced people to fear him, and Hutch was certain Marcus was only using the fresh wound of his father's loss to intimidate him—something Marcus shouldn't have known but knowledge he could have easily obtained with quick google search. Obituaries were public information and Hutch had been listed in his father's as a surviving member of his family. As for the ominous statements about the pain he held on to about his childhood and the man whom had raised him, Hutch dismissed those as well.

Marcus had taken some well-aimed shot in the dark; lots of people had unresolved issues with their parents and most everyone cried at the funerals of their loved ones. Marcus hadn't dreamed a thing. He had done his research, gathering information in order to intimidate Hutch into believing his power. Only it hadn't worked, and Hutch remained as skeptical of the man as ever.

Pulling a glass from the cupboard, he filled it with cold water from the filter on the refrigerator door. Sipping at it absently he watched as Lucky strode regretfully from the darkness of the bedroom. Looking at him with bleary brown eyes, the dog yawned before padding to sectional and jumping to lay at the end, circling the cushion before plopping down with a heavy sigh.

"I'm with you, Pal," Hutch groaned.

Lucky was growing just as tired and frustrated with Hutch's sleepless nights as Starsky was. Endlessly loyal, the dog would follow Hutch from the bedroom night after night, watching his restless owner worriedly and letting out intermittent heavy sighs and whines of disapproval. Briefly, Hutch wondered what it would be like if his partner chose to do the same and the thought of Starsky following on his heels, groaning and eyeing him worriedly was enough to elicit a smile. Starsky would never do that; though more covert with his worry, his exuberant partner was decidedly more verbal.

If Starsky dared to keep Hutch company during one of his sleepless nights—something he hadn't offered to do in a while— he wouldn't settle on concerned looks and he certainly wouldn't groan. No, Starsky would insist on talking about whatever unsettling thoughts were floating around Hutch's head, something which he wasn't eager to share.

Talking about his father would mean disclosing the horrible memories that plagued him now—the details of which, Hutch had tried to forget over the years—and though Starsky was his partner, best friend, and the person who knew him better than anyone in the world, Hutch didn't want to share that part of his past with him. He didn't want to share it with _anyone_ ; he wanted to bury it with his father and forget it ever happened.

Exhaling heartily, Hutch abandoned his water glass in the sink. Grabbing Brian Blackwell's journal and a pad of sticky notes from the pile of miscellaneous junk and unopened mail on the kitchen table, Hutch joined Lucky on the sectional and prepared himself for another long night.

Blackwell's journal was odd. The man's penmanship was sloppy but the water damage to the leather-bound book made deciphering its contents near impossible. Squinting in frustration, Hutch bit his bottom lip and flipped through to the back of the journal where the writing was much less damaged. It took a moment for him to adjust to the handwriting but once he did, he read Blackwell's entries with a mixture of skepticism and dread.

 _"… at his request for my penance, I spend my days working the orchard. But the walls of my bedroom continue bleeding and my efforts do nothing to silence Father's Marcus's voice in my head. He speaks to me without saying a word. Whispers things that somehow I already know, and, in my mind, he shows me things I don't want to see. But in my heart he tells me the truth that I already know. I cannot follow him the way others do._

 _I wanted so badly to be a part of him and now I know will, but not in the same way as the others. My commitment to him is special, and I will remembered…"_

Ears perking up, Lucky looked dubiously at the set of sliding glass doors on the wall opposite the sectional. Staring out to the darkness of patio and backyard, he let out a low warning growl.

"Shhh," Hutch chastised softly, too absorbed in the journal to pay the dog's odd behavior any mind.

 _"...Nobody is allowed entrance without sacrifice, but everyone has a place and a purpose. Some will be allowed to follow him while others must die. Father Marcus says it is the way of fate. Everything predetermined, with nothing left to chance…"_

Jumping from the sectional, Lucky barked menacingly and quickly advanced on the door. Sticking the end of his nose to the glass, the hair on his back stood up as he let out a combination of low growls and deep angry barks.

"Quiet!" Hutch scolded, pulling gaze from the journal. "You're gonna wake Starsky."

Lucky obeyed his command, but his barks transformed into a series of long, low warning growls. And watching the dog apprehensively, Hutch wondered if this was same odd behavior that the normally even-tempered Dalmatian had displayed for Starsky earlier in the afternoon. As Lucky's growing intensified, Hutch marked his place in the journal with post-it note before abandoning it on the coffee table and striding to stand behind him.

"Shhhhh," Hutch soothed deeply.

His words did nothing to calm the dog, and as Lucky continued growling Hutch's stomach dropped. He couldn't help feeling that something was wrong and for a moment he was certain his gaze would fall upon something terrible. But cupping his hands around his face and peering through the glass and out into the darkness of their backyard, he saw nothing. The grill and patio furniture seemed to be in order, as did the yard beyond the small wooden deck. Sighing, Hutch fought annoyance at his uneasiness. He was as bad as Starsky, letting the stories and a few unsettling paragraphs from the journal of a missing man go to his head.

Yet, Lucky remained unconvinced. Growls becoming increasingly volatile, the dog stared deliberately at the wooden fence separating their yard from the communal walkway leading to the beach.

"There's nothing out there, pal," Hutch whispered, unsure if his words were more to comfort the dog or himself.

The intense reaction from the normally docile dog was more than a little concerning. But scanning the yard and finding it empty once more, Hutch shook his head in disgust. Lucky was paranoid, feeding off of both his exhaustion and the apprehension Blackwell's journal entries had elicited. Double checking the door was locked, Hutch pulled the vertical blinds closed, covering the doors and blocking the off-putting darkness from view.

Letting out whine of disapproval, Lucky struggled to stick his muzzle between the blinds, but grapping the dog's collar, Hutch hastened the movement. "No," he said, his tone low and firm. "Let it go, Lucky; there's nothing out there."

Letting go of the dog collar, Hutch snapped his fingers and pointed at the sectional. Lucky hesitated for a moment, looking at the covered door forlornly before sighing and padding to settle on the cushions once more.

Pushing out a sigh of his own, Hutch rubbed his hands over his face and followed Lucky. And settling in next to the dog, he returned to Blackwell's journal.

Xx

Lucky's barking woke him. Frantic and insistent, it made Hutch's heart lurch before he opened his eyes to see the dog nervously pacing in front of the sliding glass door. Face falling in shock, Hutch shot up from the couch, sending Blackwell's journal to spill haphazardly to the floor; he could not believe was he was seeing.

Folded compactly to one side, the vertical blinds had been pushed open, allowing the dog to see to the backyard. Striding purposefully to Lucky, Hutch gazed between the door and the hallway leading to the bedroom he shared with Starsky, struggling to understand how the blinds had been opened.

Had Starsky awoken and opened them?

Though it seemed to be the only logical explanation, Hutch dismissed the thought quickly; Starsky wouldn't have done such a thing, he was adamant about keeping the blinds drawn at night, and if he had ventured to the living area, he wouldn't have left without first coaxing Hutch to return to bed.

"Shhhh, Lucky!" Hutch hissed, finding the dog's persistent barking too grinding to listen to.

But Lucky wouldn't be calmed; pacing in front of the door he let out another series of warning barks intermixed with violent growling.

" _Lucky_ , st—"

Looking through the window, the words died on Hutch's lips and his heart skipped a beat as he finally saw what Lucky was so intent on warning him about. The back gate was wide-open and standing in the middle of it was Simon Marcus, his face set in a neutral expression as Hutch gaped at him.

"Come." Marcus's mouth didn't move, but Hutch heard his voice in his head. "Come to me."

Hutch should have been frightened, but he wasn't. Calming his nerves, Marcus's words enveloped him in sense of cathartic peace. Staring at Marcus for a beat longer, he felt the last of his worry melt away, replaced by an overwhelming sense of rightness.

Marcus had come for him, just like Hutch somehow knew he would.

"Come," Marcus whispered in Hutch's ear once more. "I have much to show you."

And opening the door, Hutch strode thoughtlessly to Marcus, following him out of the open gate into the backyard, to communal walkway, and eventually the beach. Leaving the door wide open and Lucky lingering on the patio, letting out whimpers of distress.

Xx

"Babe?"

Starsky's hushed voice filled Hutch's ears but it wasn't enough to make him open his eyes. Holding his crossed arms closer to this body, he snuggled his face further into the back of the sectional.

"Hutch, come on," Starsky said, his voice gentle and insistent as he smoothed his hand through Hutch's sweat matted hair. "We're gonna be late."

Turing his head, Hutch opened his bleary eyes to find Starsky crouching in front of him. Having trouble reconciling his smiling partner with the strange feeling in pit of his stomach, he frowned. He had no memory of returning to the couch after being woken by Lucky's obnoxious barking; in fact, Hutch realized he had no memory of anything after shutting the blinds and returning to Blackwell's journal.

Starsky let out a disapproving grunt and Hutch followed his partner's gaze to find Blackwell's journal forgotten on the floor. Laying in front of the sectional, some of its pages had come loose as it fell and others had torn as it landed, and now it rested face down in a pile of its damaged contents.

"Well, babe," Starsky said. Picking up the scattered contents of the journal, he tossed it on the coffee table and assessed Hutch carefully. "You look like you had a rough night."

Thoughts of Simon Marcus swirled around in Hutch's mind and as he struggled to push them away he could swear he heard the man's deep chested laughter. While he couldn't quite put the fragments of the night together, Hutch was sure about one thing: Blackwell's writings had left some unsettling thoughts in his head and coupled with his exhausted state it had made for some really wild nightmares.

"What time is it?" Hutch asked.

"Almost eight."

"Eight? I thought we were gonna head in later today."

"We are, but it's Saturday, and you promised Keiko we'd go watch his basketball game."

" _Shit_ , I completely forgot about that."

"I know you did. That's why I made a point to remember."

Despite intentions otherwise, Hutch had missed nearly every one of Keiko's previous games. Today was the final game of the season, and Hutch hadn't just promised Keiko he would come, he had _sworn_ —up and down, on Lucky's life and Starsky's Xbox—to his 5th grade "little brother" that he would see his final YMCA basketball game. And with a slight smile, Hutch briefly considered the other sports Keiko could try now that he would be too old to participate in YMCA basketball. Maybe he could finally convince the kid to play baseball.

"How long do we have?"

"'Bout an hour." Trailing his index finger over Hutch's stubble covered cheek, Starsky frowned. "You have stop sleeping on this couch. You're gonna end up hurting your back."

"I already have back problems."

"I know; that's why we bought that fancy bed you never seem to want to sleep in."

Ignoring the note of annoyance in his partner's tone, Hutch waited patiently for Starsky to lean in and kiss him good morning, but was left disappointed as he stood instead.

Barely suppressing a frown, Starsky planted his hand on his hips and looked down at Hutch.

"What?" Hutch asked, feeling like he'd done something terribly wrong.

"You know what."

"No, I don't," Hutch denied. Propping himself on his elbows he followed Starsky's gaze to the other end of the sectional.

"I don't even want to know what would make you want to run barefoot on the beach in the middle of the night, Hutch," Starsky said tiredly, pointing first at the dried sandy footprints leading from the sliding glass door to the sectional, then to the streaks of dried sandy mud staining the cushions under Hutch's dirty feet. "But I'm not cleaning that up."

"I—I…" Struggling to reply, Hutch's breath caught in his chest. The strange events of the night flashed through his mind, Lucky's insistent barking followed by the blinds being opened. And looking at his dirty feet he realized he must have gone outside and to the beach from the looks of it. Closing his eyes, he dropped his back to the sectional, grasped the sides of his head and struggled to recall why he would have done such a thing.

"And you left Lucky outside," Starsky's chastised, nodding at the sliding glass door. "Poor guy was crying outside the backdoor when I got up. How could you do a mean thing like that, Hutch? I know you've been short tempered lately, but that dog adores you."

"I didn't mean to," Hutch offered lamely.

"Well, you did."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize to me." Starsky pointed to the dog laying lazily on his side in front of the TV stand. "Make it up to your buddy, there."

Recalling the intensity of the dog's barking, Hutch wondered if he really had intended to leave Lucky outside. After all, the dog had been barking incessantly, maybe in his exhausted state he had finally let the dog go outside and bark at whatever was bothering him so deeply.

"Didn't you hear him bark last night, Starsk?" Hutch asked.

Starsky looked at Hutch like he was out of his mind. "No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," Starsky assured, moving to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. "I heard you, though."

"What do you mean?"

Pulling the reusable coffee filter from the back of the coffee maker, Starsky grimaced, rinsing the day old grounds down the sink before flicking on the garbage disposal. Hutch wouldn't let him have Keurig, citing that the plastic single use cups were too wasteful, yet his partner didn't seem to have any problems leaving old grounds to rot in their equally expensive traditional coffee maker.

"Starsk," Hutch pressed insistently. Standing, he strode to the kitchen and leaning on the counter across the coffee maker he watched his partner expectantly. "What do you mean you heard me?"

"I heard you pacing by the door," Starsky said absently. Scooping a mountain of coffee grounds into the filter, he placed it the machine before filling the reservoir with water.

"You heard _me_?"

"Yeah. _God,_ you were loud too. You weren't the only one having trouble sleeping last night. I came out to talk to you, just in time to see you open the back gate and head to the beach." Starsky shook his head. "Hutch, I know this neighborhood is safe, and you feel invincible being a big strong cop and all, but I really wish you wouldn't do that. You've lived in the city long enough to know that running on the beach at night is a damn good way for the two of you to disappear."

"The two of us?" Hutch asked, feeling increasingly troubled by Starsky's account of the night.

"Yeah, you and Lucky. You remember taking him, don't you? I mean, I watched the two of you leave."

"You watched me leave," Hutch pointed at the sleeping dog, "with him?"

"Yeah, I saw you."

"Did you see me come back?"

"No. I wasn't in the mood to wait up for you; I locked the door and headed back to bed."

Shoulder sinking, Hutch assessed the sliding glass door uneasily, considering Starsky's version of events and the uncomfortable questions they left him with. If Starsky had locked the house, how had he gotten back in? He was sure his house keys were in the same place he'd left them the night before—in the pocket of his discarded jeans on their bedroom floor. And what about his departure with Lucky? He had left accompanied, Hutch was certain of it, but he was just as certain that it hadn't been Lucky who had joined him.

But Hutch didn't get a chance to ask Starsky more, as a knock on the front door startled him from his thoughts, and he watched helplessly as the deadbolt was unlocked from the outside before the door opened slightly.

"Are you Dudes decent?" Huggy asked.

"What is he doing here?" Hutch hissed. Gaze snapping back to his partner, he grabbed Starsky's shoulders.

"It's Keiko's last game," Starsky said calmly. "He was gonna come watch and then take him for pizza after because we have to work…" Tilting his head, he frowned. "We talked about this, Hutch—"

"I said: are you _Dudes_ decent?" Huggy asked, through the crack of the closed door.

"You're safe, Hug," Starsky assured. Grinning, he ignored Hutch's outraged expression and his quickly reddening cheeks.

"You should have never given him that damn key," Hutch complained, quickly finding his lingering apprehension over his unknown nighttime activities being chased away by the renewed embarrassment over the outrageous deeds his partner's childhood best friend had inadvertently interrupted the last time he decided to drop by announced.

It had only been that one time, but Huggy seemed intent on never letting him forget it. How was he supposed to know that Starsky had given just him a key—something that Starsky really should have disclosed before allowing Hutch to get so hot and heavy on the couch. Not to mention that Starsky should have maintained a sliver of embarrassment; after all, Huggy had walked in on both of them, but looking at Starsky's smiling face and his sparking blue eyes, Hutch realized his partner still didn't feel nearly as scandalized as he should.

"Aw, it was just once," Starsky said with an electric smile. "Besides, Huggy doesn't really care, and who else are we gonna trust to check in on Lucky when we're stuck on a job?"

Rolling his eyes, Hutch grabbed some clean coffee cups from the dishwasher. Setting them on the counter, he filled then, avoiding Huggy's gaze.

"Who says I don't care," Huggy said indigently. "I _care_ , that's why I give you ample warning now. I love you guys, and I love that you love each other, but that is _not_ something I want to see again—"

"Why are you here so early, Hug?" Hutch asked flatly.

Huggy's face fell in mock disappointment. "What? I need a reason to come visit my oldest friend in the world?" Pulling Starsky into an abrupt half hug he nodded at Hutch and continued in a low tone, "I mean your man is equally enjoyable too, but maybe you ought to take him in the bedroom and do what I saw him doing to you, it might loosen him up a bit."

Sputtering on his coffee, Hutch glared at Huggy.

"Aw, that's sweet, Hug," Starsky laughed. "But maybe you shouldn't be making jokes at Hutch's expense, he hasn't had his coffee yet and he's liable to bite you're head off in a second."

"That's just fine," Huggy said. "Just as long as we're talking about the one on my shoulders…"

"You're the worst," Hutch seethed, leaving the pair of old friends laughing in the kitchen. "The two of you together are the _worst_."


	10. Chapter Ten

**Current Day:**

"Are you really going to stay here forever?" Huggy groused, from the opposite side of Rosie and Al's backyard picnic table.

Eyes widening behind his dark sunglasses, Starsky hesitated. He hadn't expect his childhood best friend to ask the question so readily or in such a disappointed tone. Of course he should have expected it; it was the same question Uncle Al and Aunt Rosie had been asking in not so subtle ways over the last week.

It wasn't that they wanted him to leave, they just didn't want him to stay stagnant, or so Rosie had said last night, as they sat around the dinner table, right before Al looked him seriously and told him it was time to think about going home.

 _"It isn't fair, Davy,"_ Al had said. _"If Ken were just your work partner or even a friend it would be different, and we wouldn't be pushing you to talk to him. But he's more than that, both to you and to us. I know you're upset and angry over what happened, but it isn't fair to leave him hanging like this."_

With his heart sinking, Starsky knew Al had left unsaid: decide to work it out or walk away, but either way the time had finally come to make a move.

"Of course," Huggy continued, tilting his head. "The way your Aunt cooks, I can see why you wouldn't want to leave. How much do you think I'd have to cough up to convince her to stop teaching and come cook at my bar?"

"Don't know." Starsky shrugged. "She's close to retirement; you may not have to pay as much as you think."

Watching him expectantly, Huggy waited for Starsky to comment on Rosie's soup making ability or to grin while dropping a smartass comment comparing the rewards of teaching elementary school to cooking in a bar. But neither came, and Huggy was disappointed as Starsky awkwardly averted his gaze and wiped at the condensation on the side of his ice tea glass.

"Well, food aside, your family's probably thrilled to have you here. What with your charming conversation and your inspiring lack of enthusiasm for doing anything outside of watching daytime TV—"

"Hutch won't let me have cable," Starsky objected lamely, his finger dropping from the side of his glass. "He says it's a waste of money; I'm just catching up on everything I haven't seen."

Gaping at the absurdity of the statement, Huggy had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. Under normal circumstances he would have called Starsky's bluff. But taking in his friend's poorly masked anxiety and the absence of strength in his tone, Huggy decided on a softer approach.

"Okay," he agreed. "But, man, it's been three weeks. I think you've done about all the catching up you can. Don't you think time to unwrap yourself from your security blanket and—"

"I don't have a security blanket."

Huggy smiled at the note of indigence in Starsky's tone. "Yeah?" he challenged, lifting a hand he pointed at Rosie and Al's house. "What do you call that?"

"A house," `Starsky shrugged noncommittally, "a nice, big—"

"Blanket of security," Huggy finished before talking a drink of his tea. "Man, I remember a time you were itchin' to leave. Now all you want to do is stay?"

Starsky stared at Huggy for a moment. Though he didn't want to admit it—and it pained him to do so—Huggy was right; he was clinging to the house and his Aunt and Uncle like a scared kid. Ignoring his problems and fear, he had effectively hidden away from the world and everyone in it. Seeking respite in the one place he was certain Simon Marcus's evil hadn't touched.

 _Simon Marcus._

Just thinking of the man was enough send icy chills up his spine. Shifting uncomfortably, Starsky pressed his palms to the table and pushed out a heavy breath. He didn't want to talk about Marcus or the things he'd endured, but time he had been allotted for avoidance was quickly coming to an end.

Six visits to his psychiatrist had come and gone, all with him feigning ignorance and conveniently dodging the truth of what he knew. And while her demeanor was eternally gentle and supportive, Doctor Evans was growing tired of his lack of disclosure. She was only going to put up with it for so long before writing him off one way or another, and while either way Starsky was sure his visits with her would continue, his window of opportunity to eventually return to work would be indefinitely closed.

Yet, even knowing his career was on the line, wasn't enough to make him talk about what had happened—not now and maybe not ever—and these were the moments where, although still avoiding him, Starsky ached for Hutch and an understanding willing ear regarding trauma that couldn't be shared on the record.

The things he remembered were mixed up, memories of pain and violence intermixed with desperation and fear. A lot of things that hadn't made sense at the time made even less sense now. But somehow Starsky knew—he felt it with unwavering certainly—that Marcus had been inside of him. Without lifting a finger, he had shattered his heart and bruised his soul, leaving behind a mixture of impossible emotions and a devastating truth.

Though Marcus had mockingly called Hutch Starsky's white knight, in the end he hadn't come rushing into save Starsky from what Marcus had intended to do. Hutch had come out of duty and honor but it Marcus who he had remained loyal to in the end.

How was Starsky supposed to go home? Return to the house Hutch had owned for years, the very place Starsky had been taken, to live with the man whom had coordinated his abduction?

"I saw Hutch the other day," Huggy said casually. "He came down to the bar, asked if I'd seen you since..." He paused, and noting the pained looked on Starsky's face, he considered abandoning what he'd really come to say, but deciding Starsky didn't need another person tiptoeing around him he continued, "Well, since shit hit the fan with you two. He looked okay. Sad. Kept lookin' at the door like it was a normal Friday night and he was expecting you to come sauntering in—"

"I can't go home, Hug," Starsky said, his voice painfully tight.

"Why not?"

Bottom lip quivering, Starsky pressed his palm to his mouth, and as his fingertips grazed the white bandage covering his cheek he fought another wave of unwanted tears. The absence of pain pills left his trauma and hurt too close to surface. Impossible to ignore or control, overwhelming terror and sadness assaulted him at any given time, leaving him struggling to combat memories and emotions he desperately wanted to conceal and forget.

"Because," Starsky sighed. Finally grasping a sliver of control over his wayward fear, he hitched a breath beneath his palm. "It isn't safe there."

"Why?" Huggy asked. His eyes sparkled with understanding as leaned forward on the table to hear Starsky better. "Because of Hutch?"

"Yes—No..." Pausing, Starsky slipped his index fingers under his sunglasses, wiping away a few stray tears as he pushed out a series of deep calming breaths.

"Why then?"

Clearing his throat, Starsky shook his head. Then eyeing Huggy carefully, he looked for a sign that his old friend was baiting him into speaking about his irrational feelings in order to dismiss them. But seeing the genuine concern in Huggy's face, Starsky remembered that Huggy was his friend—his best friend second only to Hutch. Loyal and loving Huggy would never trick him into talking only to throw his disclosure in his face. The sudden knowledge was heartwarming and comforting, but it also made Starsky recall something else.

Huggy believed the stories about Marcus and his powers. Confiding in him would be easy; he wouldn't need convincing to believe the truth of what Starsky endured and he wouldn't think he was crazy afterword.

"Starsky?"

"They were true," Starsky said, his heart beat quickening as more tears formed behind his eyes. "All the stories we heard about Marcus while we were growing up were true."

Xx

"I don't know, kiddo." Forehead puckering, Al squinted against the afternoon sun as he walked around the charred remains of what was once Starsky's Camaro. "I have seen Merle pull off some incredible things, but I don't know if he'll be able to salvage this. It's just so far gone."

Biting at his lip, Hutch pushed his hands deep in his jeans pockets and looked forlornly at the vehicle. Though he had suspected as much, first laying eyes on the unrecognizable car at Metro's impound lot, he had called Al early that morning to come down make the final declaration of the car's future.

It had been a miracle the car had even been found, and if it hadn't been for the fire that ravaged the Marcus compound—or John Blaine's insistence—it probably would have remained hidden forever. While Hutch was grateful that the precious car had been recovered, seeing what was left of his partner's prized possession was devastating. The car's heartbreaking state served as a glaring unescapable reminder that what had happened hadn't been a bad dream and that what he had done to Starsky wasn't some horrible nightmare—the details of which, as each day passed without Starsky by his side, were becoming more difficult to ignore.

But Hutch was trying his best not to focus on the past—what had happened was done and there just wasn't anything he could do to change it. Instead he was practicing patience, giving Starsky the time and space he needed to recover enough to speak about what had gone on between them. Which was a lot easier said than done, especially with the weight of his endless guilt and grief, but taking Al's previous advice, Hutch tried not to spend too much time dwelling on that either—another thing easier said than done.

So Hutch did the only thing he could think of: he kept busy.

Preoccupying himself with everything from cleaning the house to taking Lucky on long walks around the city. But when the walks turned to jogs, the jogs into runs, and when the fast paced endless runs become too much for the dog, Hutch had taken to running a few early morning miles with Lucky, then dropping the exhausted dog at home he would continue for hours. Mile after mile he ran. Pushing all active thought from his mind, time would pass quickly as he made his way numbly—mindlessly—through the pavement of the city.

It was easy to run from what had happened during the day, but the evenings were somewhat of a problem. The night was just too dark, the house too quiet, and their bed too empty without Starsky beside him. The only respite Hutch had against the overwhelming desperation that came with nighttime were new, stronger sleeping pills. They worked, ebbed his worried thoughts long enough for him to get _some_ sleep. Though not nearly as much as needed and not as much as Hutch believed he would get once Starsky returned to his side.

"Are you sure?" Hutch pressed insistently, moving to stand beside Al. Holding on to a sliver of hope that someone— _somewhere_ —could do something to save what was left of Starsky's baby. "Are you absolutely sure there isn't anything anyone can do. It doesn't have to be Merle, I'd pay to—"

"Ken, I know you don't know a lot about cars but if Merle can't fix it nobody can. The man's talent is unparalleled—"

"I know," Hutch said. "I've been told, _repeatedly_."

"Right," Al chuckled. "Well, it's the damn truth."

Stepping closer to the decrepit car, Al planted his palms on his thighs and leaned over for a closer look. All the windows were broken, smashed out by blunt force with some mysterious object leaving sharp misshapen edges that had succumbed to fire, stealing their transparency and transforming them into an odd mixture of solid gray and brown. The interior of the car was skeletal; the leather seats had burned through, leaving the once shiny metal with a rusty decaying hue. And the dashboard had melted, sinking to the floor it had transformed into a large unrecognizable lumpy mass which looked like it would disintegrate with the slightest of touches.

Assessing the car, Al fought a wave of sadness. Absently he wondered if Hutch knew the real reason Davy had wanted this particular car so badly, then quickly dismissed the thought. Hutch couldn't have known, the only reason Al knew himself was because he had helped Michael pick out the exact same make and model weeks before Rachel found out she was pregnant with Davy.

The 1982 Camaro had been the only car Michael ever purchased brand new and remained a well-loved fixture in the Starsky family until Michael's death, nearly ten years later. Michael had adored the car so Davy had too, and he had been livid when his mother—in a moment of overwhelming grief—had sold it one afternoon while Davy and Nicky were at school.

Davy had been devastated his mother would do such a thing, and it created a rift between the pair that would continue to grow, widening over the years with each decision mother and son made that the other couldn't comprehend or bring themselves to support.

So years later, Al hadn't been completely surprised when Davy had come to him, VIN number in hand of the exact 1982 Camaro he wanted to track down. Even though he had done his best to talk his nephew out of it, Al had known it then—even though he never said anything—Davy didn't want a replica of his father's beloved car, he wanted _the car_ —the very one Michael had owned.

It had taken some time, but Al eventually found Michael's original car. Sitting rusted out and forgotten in some old man's field in Ohio, it was wreck; yet even with all of its damage Al couldn't recall seeing Davy so happy. He still remembered how his nephew had looked at the car, the tears that glistened in his eyes as he walked silently around it, smoothing his palm over the hood. And that was when Al knew something else: while time had done little to ease the pain of losing Michael, having his father's beloved car meant more to Davy then anyone would ever truly understand. It was a physical reminder of who the man was, tactile proof of his once loving existence and a time before Starsky's relationships with his mother and brother had become so fractured.

Sighing heavily, Al shook his head, looking at the terrible remains of what once was. The car was a hell of a thing for Davy to lose now, considering everything that had already been taken from him and the overwhelming amount of pain the future still promised.

"It's gonna take a damn miracle to bring this back to life." The words left Al's mouth before he could stop them. He cringed at the thought of his judgmental tone, but didn't turn around to see how it had affected Hutch.

"Well, I think we're about due for a miracle," Hutch whispered fiercely. "After everything he's been through. After all the _fucking_ shit he's endured. Don't tell me this is impossible, Al."

"I didn't say impossible." Turning, Al found Hutch looking at the car, his lips pressed together in a stubborn line. "But Merle is only gonna be able to do fix it if the frame is salvageable," he added, hardening his expression against the sadness he felt by breaking such terrible news. "And I can tell you that isn't looking too good. If the frame is workable—and I do mean _if_ —the whole thing is gonna have to be replaced and rebuilt. I'm talking engine, interior, body, _everything_. And that's going to be _expensive_. I could probably find you another and we could restore it for half of what this is gonna cost in the end."

"I don't care how much it costs," Hutch said insistently. "And it can't be another Camaro, Al. It has to be this one—" His voice cracking, he planted his hands on his hips, his teary gaze frozen on the car. "I won't just give up, throw it away like it what happened to it didn't matter. It did matters, and I'm going to fix it. I don't care what it costs and I don't care what it takes. I _have_ to fix this."

Taken aback by Hutch's grief-fueled ferocity, Al found himself wondering if he knew about the origin of the car, and for a moment he thought about saying something to ease Hutch's responsibility. But taking a step back looking in-between the destroyed car and the deep sadness in Hutch's eyes, Al decided to stay quiet. If Hutch knew then he should count himself lucky to be privy to such a private thing, and if he didn't then Al didn't want to add to his already mountainous grief over what had unfolded.

Watching unshed tears sparkle in Hutch's eyes as he gazed at the remains of the car like it was the only sliver of hope he had, it occurred to Al that the Camaro had come to represent something beyond Starsky's love for his father. Now the salvation of car represented the state of Davy's and Ken's relationship. Scorched, crushed, and near-destroyed, if the car could be mended, then so could they.

"Okay," Al said. "I'll call the shop, get one of my guys to come tow her to Merle's. We'll see what he can do—" his statement was cut off as Hutch swept him into a firm hug.

"Thanks, Al," Hutch whispered his voice thick. "You don't know what this means to me."

"I think I do, kiddo." Al said, squeezing him tightly.

Xx

 **Months Prior:**

Nights continued to pass with Lucky barking incessantly in the middle of the night, waking Hutch from troubled sleep, while Starsky slept, seemingly undisturbed. And when the mornings came, Hutch would be startled awake by his worried partner with no clear memory of what had happened the night before, and no explanation for the increasingly bothersome locations Starsky was beginning to discover him sleeping.

First it had been the couch.

Starsky had emerged from the bedroom to find Hutch laying on the sectional, Lucky laying loyally at his feet. And while it wasn't the ideal place for Hutch to be sleeping, it was far from worrisome.

Then it was the patio.

Sliding glass door left wide open, Starsky had been shocked to find Hutch sitting at the patio set, his arms and upper body sprawled across table, sleeping deeply. It had been a discomforting sight, but not nearly as jolting as when Starsky had found his partner laying in middle the lawn, and mild in comparison to where Starsky had found Hutch that morning.

It was just before sunrise when Lucky woke Starsky. Jumping on the bed, he pawed insistently at his side, letting out whimpers of distress, and Starsky had known immediately that something was wrong. He rushed through the empty house frantically searching for his partner before following Lucky out the backdoor, through the open back gate, and eventually to the abandoned beach, where he found his wayward partner.

Feet from the coastline, soaked head to toe with sand sticking to his skin and peppering his hair, Hutch had been safe and sound, sleeping peacefully as the sun rose in the horizon. It would have been a pleasant sight if not for the terror Starsky felt in his chest and the problematic questions racing through his mind.

Why would Hutch come the beach in the middle of the night, go swimming in his boxer shorts, and then fall asleep as though he was in the safety of his own home?

But Hutch had no idea how he had come to be at the beach or why he slept there. Just like all the times before he remembered nothing. While he had tried to casually explain away the event—as an escalation of his recent sleepwalking episodes—Starsky saw the brief fear in his eyes, the flash of the uncertain anxiety Hutch had struggled so hard to conceal.

"Maybe you oughta go see a doctor," Starsky said, peering at his partner from over the top of his morning coffee as he stood pajama bottom clad, watching Hutch dig through their dresser. "Maybe you should see if you can do sleep study or something?"

"Starsky, people sleepwalk. I don't need to see a doctor," Hutch scoffed, kneeling to pull a clean pair of jeans from the bottom drawer. "I just need you to stop worrying."

"I'm not worrying."

"Sure, you're not." Grabbing his growing stack of clothes, Hutch smiled knowingly. "I'm fine, babe. I'm just not sleeping as well as I used to; sleep habits can change—"

"Sleep walking isn't a normal sleep habit, Hutch."

"Plenty of people sleepwalk, Starsk. It isn't that out of the ordinary."

"Okay, fine. But it's out of the ordinary for you. _Jesus_ , Hutch, you could have drowned... You could have disappeared… _Shit_ , you could have died."

"But I didn't. Look this morning was scary, I get it, but someday we're gonna look back at this day and laugh."

"It isn't funny," Starsky snapped. "This is serious, Hutch. It's got to stop. What happens tonight, huh? Where do I find you tomorrow morning? Or the next one, or the one after that?" Pointing at the bed, Starsky's voice deepened with frustration. "I swear, I am three seconds away from handcuffing you to the headboard at night, and I don't mean that in a fun way!"

Standing, Hutch chuckled at the memory Starsky's empty threat provoked. "I'm not going to let you do that, Starsk," he said lightly, striding to the master bathroom. "No handcuffs in the bedroom. Remember what happened last time?"

Abandoning his coffee cup on the dresser, Starsky rubbed his hands over his face. Although Hutch's sleepwalking was the most pressing worry that morning, there seemed to be an endless list of other troublesome things to think about.

It had been weeks and despite two additional visits to the Marcus compound they had yet to make a break in the Blackwell case. Dobey, frustrated by the pressure he was feeling from both his superiors and the Blackwell's family, had accused them of dropping the ball, and for the first time in his career Starsky was forced to agree with his superior's negative assessment of their performance.

Despite evidence otherwise, Hutch was still obsessing over Marcus's alleged guilt on a microscopic level. While Starsky certainly didn't believe the man was completely innocent, they simply didn't have any evidence to warrant Hutch's pushing the Marcus angle so hard.

Blackwell had been living on the Marcus compound until one day he wasn't and not a trace of the man had been left behind. Either Marcus was better at hiding evidence than they thought or Blackwell had decided disappear without telling his family where he was going—which was a viable option in Starsky's opinion. Blackwell hadn't spoken to his family for nearly a year, a decision that had been born from a fallout with his affluent family; Blackwell had wanted to cut ties, make a new life for himself, and perhaps leaving the Marcus compound he finally had.

It wasn't uncommon for people to grow up and away from their families. That was exactly what Hutch had done; in fact Hutch had gone to great lengths to distance himself from his family, and though Starsky wasn't completely sure why he would have done such a thing, he had his theories.

And it wasn't like Starsky's relationship with his family was much better. He was close with his Aunt and Uncle but the relationships with his mother and brother were much more strained. They loved each other—that would never change—but they didn't have anything in common. He and Nicky had grown up without each other, becoming more like acquaintances than brothers. And the rift between him and his mother hadn't stopped growing since she sent him to the west coast when he was nine—something that was supposed to be temporary but had turned into something much more permanent. And if it weren't for an awkward visit every few years, some short scattered phone calls, text messages, and being linked as family members on Facebook, they probably wouldn't know anything about each other at all.

Forcing his thoughts back to Hutch, Starsky frowned. His partner's insistence on ignoring his sleepwalking was concerning, as was energy he was focusing on Simon Marcus. Hutch's fixation with Marcus troubling, and though Starsky didn't know why, it almost seemed as if Hutch's contempt for Marcus was personal—as though he had somehow engaged himself in some strange competition for power. And during the few additional visits they had made to the compound, Starsky found the way Hutch and Marcus spoke to each other unnerving.

Starsky had never, in all the years he had known him, seen Hutch speak to someone like that—at least not without ample reason. But when speaking to Marcus, Hutch was patronizing, rude and intensely angry; he was willing to do or say most anything he could to disrupt Marcus's calm demeanor. While Marcus—eternally pleased for some unknown reason—seemed almost proud at his ability to push Hutch closer and closer to his breaking point while remaining unaffected by whatever derogatory thing he had to say.

As for Starsky, the novelty of Marcus' supposed powers had ebbed, taking a back seat to his concern about Hutch's wellbeing and his increasing worrisome behavior. Starsky still had a heathy respect for Marcus, and he still wasn't comfortable with the man knowing him—or Hutch—because while they couldn't link him to Blackwell's disappearance, Marcus was dangerous.

While Hutch had begun sleep walking, Starsky had become captive to intense violent dreams—dreams which once awakened he would have little memory of but the feelings remained. Pain. Helplessness. Terror. All troubling emotions that followed him around in his waking hours. He had begun to feel as though someone where with him, that a dark overbearing shadow of evil was following him around. Watching him closely during the night and whispering secrets of what had been done and what was yet to happen in his dreams.

Part of Starsky wanted to ignore the crushing dread he felt gripping his heart, to dismiss it completely as nervous energy connected to Hutch's odd behavior. Though it made sense, that he would be feeding off the pain Hutch was hiding under the surface and filtering into the Marcus case, it just wasn't enough to convince Starsky to dismiss his apprehension.

A tension was building; a static sense of negativity and anger that was sure to push them both beyond their breaking points. And while Starsky felt increasingly alone with his silent fear, he still longed to somehow make Hutch understand how frightening things were becoming. But somehow he couldn't—he couldn't think of the right words to say or the proper way to communicate his worries without having them quickly dismissed by his partner. And the last thing he wanted was another fight.

Watching Hutch push the bathroom door closed, Starsky momentarily allowed himself to lose control over his anxiety. Turning to face the bed, he pressed his palms to his eyes and sighed a deep, shaky breath.

"Please," he whispered, his low voice cracking. "You need to all of this seriously before something terrible happens."

"Hey."

Gentle fingers wrapped around his wrists, pulling his hands away as Starsky looked up into his partner's guarded blue eyes.

"It's all okay," Hutch assured softly. Running his hand through his partner's hair, he placed a kiss on Starsky's forehead before pulling him into a tight embrace. "Nothing terrible will happen, I promise you. All this weird sleeping stuff is going to pass, and everything will be fine. Don't worry so much, baby."

Closing his eyes, Starsky pressed his head to Hutch's shoulder. He longed to believe his partner's words, but it wasn't okay; nothing about their current state resembled anything close to okay.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Current Day:**

Doctor Evan's office was comfortably quiet.

Masking her curiosity she watched Starsky pace, stopping intermittently to silently inspect various items collected around the room. She smiled congenially as he hesitated in place once more, thoughtfully considering the towering mounted bookcase which took up nearly the whole wall.

"Have you really read all these?" he asked, skimming his fingertips across the spines of the books sitting at eye level.

"At one time or another."

Leaning back in her chair, Evans crossed her arms and legs as Starsky resumed his pacing, this time walking from one end of the bookcase to the other.

"You seem agitated today," she said.

Sighing, Starsky stood frozen in place, before turning in time to see Evans finish a short note on the notepad resting on her legs. While the notes used to bother him, he had recently found himself apathetic to whatever secret statements she wrote about him. It didn't matter what she chose to think about him or his behavior; the weight of her professional opinion did little to threaten him in comparison to what he'd suffered or what he was still enduring.

Speaking to Huggy had helped. It had eased some of the burden and made him feel a little less manic, and though Huggy been a captive audience and sympathetic ear, their conversation had ended predictably, with his childhood best friend reiterating Uncle Al and Aunt Rosie's same soft plea to talk Hutch and a not-so-subtle reminder it was time to start dealing with things—something which remained much easier said than done. It wasn't as simple as everyone made it seem, to just talk to Hutch about what had happened and work everything out.

A part Starsky was afraid to see Hutch again.

How much of Marcus's influence had lingered behind? Was the Hutch which remained after Marcus's death the same person Starsky had loved fiercely for years? Or was Hutch an imposter, waiting in the patiently shadows for him to return home so he could finally finish what Marcus had begun? The thought was enough to make Starsky feel paranoid, guilty and ashamed. What kind of person allowed themselves to harbor feelings like that toward the one they're supposed to love the most?

Though Starsky knew Hutch had briefly visited him in the hospital, he hardly remembered seeing his partner that day, or anything they had said to each other. Hutch had apologized—he knew that for certain—but everything else was a blur, a fragmented mass of fuzzy emotions and moments which felt more like dreams. Sometimes it was easy to believe that they had never seen each other at all, as if the last time Starsky saw Hutch was the day of their terrible argument. The one which had pushed Hutch even further away and allowed Marcus the opportunity to put his final plan into motion. It was easier this way, if that would have been the last day he saw his wayward partner then that would mean that other memories—the patchy recollections which seemed just beyond his grasp—wouldn't have happened, that they were nothing more displaced memories. In fact, maybe Hutch hadn't been at the compound while Marcus was holding Starsky hostage. Perhaps, Starsky in his confused state had imagined the whole thing.

Starsky wanted to believe this theory, with everything inside him he did, but he couldn't. He had scars which proved otherwise—mental and physical—and one irrefutable memory that would never allow him to believe his own lies. And it would be so much easier just to believe the lies; denial would make seeing Hutch a much easier thing to manage.

Starsky didn't miss Hutch, he ached for him. He longed for the security of having his partner by his side, when the night seemed too dark and endless and the days too long to live through. He missed feeling the silent strength of Hutch's arms and the seeing the look of pure love in his eyes, though, regretfully Starsky realized the Hutch he missed had been absent for a while. Long before he had been rescued from the Marcus compound and even before he had been taken, Hutch— _his Hutch_ —had been absent for quite some time.

A part of Starsky was angry at Hutch. It was infuriating to think of all the months his partner had spent pretending to be fine after his father's death. If only they could have just talked about it—if Hutch would have trusted or felt safe enough to talk about what he was struggling with—then maybe none of this would have had to happen.

But Hutch had been too stubborn, too aloof, too distrusting of Starsky—for whatever reason—to confide his pain, and Starsky, thinking he was doing his partner some service, hadn't pushed him to talk about it. But all the energy Hutch had expended running away from himself and his difficult feelings had meant nothing in the end, because, in the end, Marcus had used Hutch's pain against both of them. Awakening Hutch's anger toward his father, Marcus had convinced Hutch do what was done, and, now, Starsky didn't know if he could ever forgive his partner.

How do you ever began to forgive someone for the unthinkable?

Starsky couldn't seem to bring himself to speak to Hutch, yet, he wasn't ready to lose him, either, and lately his conflict regarding contacting his partner had dissolved into a terrible game of what if?

What if he saw Hutch and all could see was what he had done to him, or worse, what if his already unpredictable and irrepressible terror intensified?

What if he couldn't recover from all the horrible things he'd endured?

What if _they_ —he and Hutch—couldn't recover what the pain Marcus had inflicted?

What if it all really was over?

His career, his relationship with Hutch, everything.

What then? How was he supposed to deal with his life crumbling when each day already seemed like it was too much to handle?

Maybe ignoring Hutch wasn't the right thing to do, but it was better than working through what happened. Avoiding his partner was easier than seeing him because then Starsky didn't have to deal with any of the pressing what ifs. He didn't have to deal with anything; avoiding complicated conversations with Doctor Evans and living at his Aunt and Uncle's house he was able remove himself from his life and suspend the future indefinitely.

"David?" Evans prompted. "Is something wrong?"

"No," Starsky lied.

"Are you sure? You seem more on edge than usual. Is there something you would like to share today?"

Opening his mouth to decline the offer Starsky found himself considering it instead. While he couldn't bring himself to talk to Evans about Marcus maybe he could confide something else. Maybe he could entrust her with his complicated feelings about Hutch.

"How official are you?" he whispered, needing to verify her discretion before trusting himself to talk about the nature of his sensitive relationship with his partner.

"What?" Evans chuckled, pointing at her wall of framed qualifications. "I assure you I'm fully qualified to treat you—"

"No. I mean, in connection to Bay City PD, how official are you? How sealed are the records of what I tell you?"

Pursing her lips, Evans looked at him intently for a moment before placing the cap on her pen, flipping the pages back on her notepad and lightly tossing them both at the floor next to her feet. "Blanket statements," she said matter-of-factly. Waving him over, she indicated at the plush chair opposite her own.

"Blanket statements?"

"Yes." Clasping her hands, Evans leaned forward as Starsky sunk into the other chair. "David, I am a contracted consultant—not an employee of the Bay City PD—which entitles to as much discretion as is needed. Of course, there are things I do have to report to them, such as if I'm privy to anything that would affect your safety or safety of others or lingering complications which could impact your ability to make sound decisions while acting as a police officer. But I'm given a form—a template—to complete with my official opinion of your ability to function professionally and very little detail is included, unless something is warranted." She raised a warning finger. "But what is reported are generally blanket statements, and in the end very little is added which wasn't originally included in the report filed when you were found."

"But what about my file?" Starsky asked suspiciously. "The one you're required by law to maintain, documenting our visits, what I say and how I say it."

"I do keep my own records, but those are between you and me. David, the only way anyone can obtain access to those is by legal action; someone has to formally request them and have ample reason for doing so. Otherwise, what you say is private, unless—"

"Unless I say something that would be remiss for you ignore," Starsky finished. Crossing his arms, he frowned; having been a cop for as long as he had, he'd heard this song and dance before. "Something someone could hold you responsible for if I freak out and hurt somebody in the future."

"Or yourself."

Stifling a groan, Starsky rubbed his hands on the thighs of his jeans, his fingertip caught on the small frayed hole near his kneecap and he began to pick at it absently. Though Evan's report system wasn't as frightening as he originally thought, it was a worrisome prospect to know his words would be permanently documented. What if he had a moment of weakness and said something he couldn't take back?

"I had a feeling that was part of your aversion to talking to me," Evans said knowingly. "I know you're uncomfortable discussing some of the things that happened. You're afraid that if you talk about what happened you'll be perceived a certain way or that speaking about these things will somehow threaten your opportunities in the future."

"I'm not afraid of that." Feeling anxiety rush through him, Starsky pulled at the hole in his jeans firmly, ripping the worn material leaving it damaged and frayed.

"Then what are you afraid of?" Evans pressed gently, watching his hand with interest.

The simple question was oddly disarming. It awakened a series of uncomfortable complicated emotions and Starsky, with familiar ache settling in his chest, was left feeling vulnerable and transparent as he fixed his tearful eyes on the widening hole in his jeans.

"That I've already lost everything," he admitted softly as tears spilled from his eyes. Wiping them away his fingertips grazed the bandage covering the deep scar on his cheek and barely repressed a sob. Why did Marcus have to mark him with a scar? It all would have been so much easier to ignore if he wouldn't have been left with such a painful permanent reminder. "I'm afraid that there isn't enough of us— _me_ —left to be saved."

Standing, Evans nodded sadly as Starsky struggled to regain his composure. Walking to her desk, she collected the box of tissues, and moving to stand in front of a still sniffling Starsky she offered him a tissue.

"But how will you know what's really lost if you never try to save anything?"

Xx

The Pits was busy and alive with movement, which wasn't a surprise considering it was Friday night, but Hutch still found himself slightly irritated by the overlapping chatter of the bar's crowd. He would have preferred something quieter, less packed, and more low-key than the interesting group The Pits catered to. The people surround him were an odd mix; there was the regular crowd, of course, intermixed with everyone from off the clock business men meeting up for a companionable drink, college kids looking for a good time, groups of friends, and sporadic couples on dates. While Hutch was happy his friend was enjoying such success, given the early evening hour and the delicate nature of their conversation he couldn't help wishing the establishment was a little less loud.

"I don't know what to do, Huggy," he admitted lowly, grimacing slightly as Huggy lowered himself over the opposite end of the bar, bringing their faces closer together.

Huggy rolled his eyes. "You don't want me to be this close to you then you're gonna have to speak up, man."

"I don't want anyone to overhear," Hutch said, eyeing the line of other patrons sitting at the bar.

"You think they give a shit about your drama? They're all too preoccupied with enjoying themselves." Pointing to the pair sitting a seat away from Hutch, Huggy grinned. "Or starting some of their own," he added, nodding at the man and woman, their faces tight with repressed anger as they engaged in a particularly tense conversation.

"Yeah," Hutch sighed, taking a drink of his beer.

"You really miss him, don't you?"

Hutch nodded, though he thought the term miss did little to explain how he really felt about Starsky's absence. The word ache flashed through his mind before he dismissed it, snorting at the absurdity of correcting Huggy's apt assessment to such an over-the-top feeling—regardless of how true it was.

"At this point I don't think I would mind if he was looking at me," Hutch pointed at the woman who was assessing the man, her eyes sparkling with dangerous anger, "the way she is looking at him."

"Ugh," Huggy grimaced. "Maybe set your goal a little higher than that; she looks like she's five seconds away from throwing her ring at him."

"I'd settle for that too."

"Oh, come on," Huggy frowned. "Knock it off. Pitiful pining doesn't look good on you, blondie. If you really want Starsky to talk to you then you need to do something about it."

"Like what?"

"A grand gesture."

"What?" Hutch sputtered on his beer. "A grand gesture?" He frowned as irrepressible images of Marcus's sickening grin and Starsky's battered body intermixed in his memory. Grand gesture probably wasn't the best choice of words, especially not given the reason why Marcus had taken Starsky in the first place, as Hutch's deep love for his partner had been the only reason Marcus had target him.

Sacrificing Starsky was supposed to be the grandest gesture of them all, but in the end Hutch had disrupted Marcus's plan—he had saved Starsky's life—a detail his fractured partner didn't seem willing to acknowledge or worse, didn't remember.

Noting the careful way Huggy was assessing him Hutch forced as smile. "Like what," he snorted. "Should I go stand outside his window holding a boom box over my head?"

"Of course not. But I do think you ought to think about selling your house."

"What?"

Hutch leaned back in his chair and waited for the punchline of what Huggy had to have intended as a joke. He couldn't sell their house. Where the hell were he and Starsky supposed to live?

"Do you have any idea how much that house cost?" Hutch said, irritation seeping into his tone. "Or how much money I have poured into renovating, updating, and maintaining it."

"You'll be glad to get rid of it then," Huggy said, smiling behind his glass of beer. "Give the old wallet a break."

"That's not funny," Hutch snapped.

"Hey, don't hate the messenger, man," Huggy said, throwing his free hand up in mock surrender. "I'm not the one who thinks you should sell it."

"Starsky told you he wanted me to sell my house?"

"Not in so many words."

"What did he say?"

"That he wasn't going back there."

"Huggy," Hutch sighed. "Starsky doesn't want to go back to the house because I'm there. It doesn't have anything to do with—"

"Look, the way he sees it, since all of the stories about Marcus ended up being true—"

"Not all the stories were true."

"Really?" Huggy said exasperatedly. "You're really sit right there and play it like that? After everything you saw, after everything you did? Boy, I can't imagine why Starsky wouldn't want to talk to you right now."

"Okay," Hutch conceded, slightly stung by the words. Leave it Huggy to keep him honest. " _Most_ of the stories were true."

"That's better. Anyway, the way he sees it, with all the weird stuff went down there that maybe the house has some bad vibes to it now. He wants to see you, but isn't going back to that house. And deep down, he really wants to come home.

"Yeah, sure," Hutch said dejectedly, smoothing his finger over the lip of his near empty glass.

"No, he really does."

"He say that to you, Hug?"

"Well... Not in those words…"

Snorting sadly, Hutch shook his head, and Huggy remained quiet. Letting the statement sink in as he turned his attention to his drink. Finishing his beer, Huggy held the empty glass between his hands, and watching the familiar action Hutch felt a sharp pang in his heart. Starsky did that too, one of the very few habits that the childhood best friends shared. With his heart sinking in his chest, Hutch realized that Huggy was much better friend to Starsky then he'd ever be.

Supportive, joyful, and loyal Huggy would never would have let Marcus hurt Starsky the way he had. He wouldn't have been careless enough to, because Huggy had known the stories about Marcus—he'd been smart enough to listen to them.

Hutch, however, had been too busy being skeptical of Marcus to see what was happening right in front of his eyes, and, eventually, too threatened by what Marcus had known to properly protect his partner—and that had been his greatest error. Not believing—not listening and trusting Starsky's intuition—until it was much too late.

"God," Hutch sighed thickly, helplessness overwhelming him as he pressed his hands to his face. "Why am I even _trying_? It's never going to be the way it was before." Pulling his hands back he shrugged in an overwhelmed fashion and waived his hand in the air. "He's never going to get over that shit and I'm selfish to even want him to! I'm a cynical, self-serving asshole."

"You forgot self-loathing," Huggy said flatly, and Hutch glared at him dangerously. "Okay," he added quickly. "So maybe what happed was bad, but do you want whine about the situation or do you want to fix it?"

"I wanna fix it!"

"Then start with the house."

"But I love that house," Hutch whined. "I've put so much work into it over the years. It's perfect. It's in a nice neighborhood, backyard for the dog, close to the beach…" He hesitated, an odd expression settling on his face as he finished his beer.

Why was he so intent on keeping the house? What had happened with Starsky aside, the terrible memories attached to the property suddenly seemed to outweigh the incentive to keep it.

While Hutch loved the beach house from the moment saw it, purchasing the property hadn't been easy. And he wouldn't have been able to pull it off at all if it hadn't been for his father. He and Vanessa, his college sweetheart and finance at the time, had made the offer on the property together. They had been weeks away from closing on the home when Vanessa, startled by a newly discovered secret about Hutch's past, had decided to walk away from both Hutch and the future they had so carefully planned for themselves. He had been heartbroken, not only from losing the person whom he had considered the love of his life but also for the sudden dissolution of the normal life he had tried so hard to believe he wanted.

Without Vanessa's contribution the down payment on the beach house was vastly out of reach, and Hutch had prepared himself to walk away from the property but was shocked when a check arrived from his father, gifting him the down payment he needed to purchase the house. The money had been a surprise; Hutch had never told his father about the house or that Vanessa had left him. But holding the check tightly in his fist, he had known that returning home to Duluth she must had told his father everything—how they had broken up and why. It was the only believable reason his father would have sent him the money.

And now the house was the only thing left linking Hutch to his father and physical proof—a veiled admission—of his father's responsibility for what had gone on when he was a child, and suddenly Hutch didn't want it anymore nor did he feel even a shadow of his previous affinity for the home.

"You're right," Hutch said seriously. "Starsky's right too, that house has got to go."

"Really?" Huggy asked suspiciously. "A minute ago you were heartbroken about the thing and now you're flip floppin' just like that?"

"Yep." Feeling an old anger fill his stomach, Hutch looked at Huggy with a dangerous gleam in his eyes. "I don't give a shit about the house. If Starsky doesn't want to go back there it's okay with me. I'm not so sure I want to be there either. Let's sell the fucker—or better yet, let's burn the thing to the ground—"

"Whoa, don't get too enthusiastic on me," Huggy joked. "Besides, aren't you already an alleged suspect in an arson?"

"That's not funny."

"Ah, it's a little funny." Pulling himself from the bar Huggy gathered their empty glasses and turned to refill them.

"I don't want another, Hug," Hutch said, rubbing his hands across his face. "I have to head home soon, let Lucky out and—" he stopped abruptly, looking down as his phone vibrated on the wooden bar.

The message sprawled across its illuminated screen brought tears to Hutch's eyes and filled him with a mixture of apprehension, hope, and relief.

 **STARSKY: I'm ready to talk.**


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Months Prior:**

The farmhouse was dark, save for sporadic light from the full moon filtering through the open bedroom windows, shining sporadically on the long hallway. The walls were damp, thick lines of liquid glistened, illuminated by moon. And while couldn't make out the color, Starsky knew it was blood. Seeping down the walls, soaking into the worn wood of the floor, it made the house smell of death. A heavy rotting odor which permeated the air, leaving it difficult to breath.

The soles of his worn tennis shoes slipped on the layer of thick congealed liquid covering the floorboards; each step was slow, purposeful, but whether it was to avoid reaching the basement staircase at the end of the hallway and whatever waited for him below or to avoid a misstep which would send him tumbling to the blood covered floor, he was unsure.

The house was impossibly quiet. Glancing through a bedroom doorway, he could see the branches of the trees swaying outside against the wind in the window, but he couldn't hear a thing. The window was open, but he couldn't feel the breeze, the coldness of the night air which was certain to be filtering inside the home. His body felt strange—numb—his mind oddly calm—displaced—as though he was watching each inevitable step he took from across the room.

It should have frightened him, the thought of walking alone in Simon Marcus's home, but it didn't because he knew why he was there. Marcus wanted Hutch so he needed Starsky, and he had been taken to ensure his partner's permanent place in the darkness.

 _"…Simon…Simon…Simon_ …"

A mumbled chanting traveled up the dark stairwell. A chorus of men's voices which should have filled Starsky with panic but instead he felt overcome by peace. This was what was to be; Hutch had chosen for himself and by doing so he chosen for Starsky too.

 _"…Simon…Simon…Simon_ …"

The power and volume of the word spoken by a chorus intensified with each step he took, but still Starsky didn't falter. Gripping the wet handrail, he traveled down the stairs, feeling a slick layer of blood slip between his fingers he slipped on stair and held the rail tighter, sending a stream of blood to splatter on the already soaked staircase. He could feel the liquid soak into body, permeating his skin and marking him with the foul odor which hinted at what was to come.

 _"Simon…Simon…Simon…"_

The men's gentle voices became louder Starsky stood at the base of the stairs, staring fearlessly at a group of men standing in a tight circle—they had been waiting for this. They had been waiting for him.

Faces covered by the hoods of their dark robes, their heads bowed, they moved apart from each other, revealing another blond man standing in the center of the group. Dressed as the others, his head was not hidden by his robe, and as he gripped the hilt of a hunting knife in both his hands his face broke into a handsome smile.

 _"Simon…Simon…Simon…"_

"Starsky," the blond man said warmly, waving Starsky to stand before him. "It is time for you to open your eyes. It is time for you to wake up…"

Following his direction, Starsky strode to kneel before Hutch. He didn't think about what he was doing or why. He felt a peace in his soul and an unyielding love for his partner deep in his heart.

 _"Simon…Simon…Simon…"_

"Starsky," Hutch said firmly, raising the knife high above his head, as the group of blond men encircled them. "It is time...Wake up," he added his voice softening. "It's time to wake up."

But noting the strange glint of madness in Hutch's eyes, Starsky felt a sudden panic clench his chest. What was he doing? He couldn't do this. Hutch _couldn't_ do this. He tried to stand up, but couldn't; frozen on his knees, his body was held captive by something unseen.

"It is time, Starsky," Hutch said calmly, thrusting the knife forward. "Time for you to say goodbye to this life, time for you to wake up."

"NO!" the painful scream escaped Starsky as he felt the tip of knife break through his shoulder. Fiery pain shot through his body. A stinging pressure which seemed to travel from one shoulder to the other as the blade was pushed impossibly deep.

"Wake up!" Hutch shouted. "Wake up!"

 _"Simon…Simon…Simon…"_

The chorus of men's voices became one. Deep and grinding, the voice reverberated in Starsky's head, filling him with agony. Choking out a sob, his knees betrayed him, sending Starsky falling on his back on the slippery floor.

Why had he come? Why had he allowed any of this to happen?

 _"Soon,"_ Starsky heard a gritty voice whisper in his head. Grimacing, he pressed his hands to his ears, struggling to silence the voice in his head, to avoid the burning pain radiation through his shoulder and chest. _"Soon, you will join me, and in the darkness you will be mine."_

"No!" Starsky sobbed, feeling the pressure in his shoulders intensify. "No!"

"Starsky!" Hutch said insistently. "Come on, Starsk!"

Starsky yelped as he someone grabbed his upper body tightly, pulling him to a seated position as strong arms cradled him in a comforting fashion.

"Wake up," Hutch ordered gently. "Come on, baby, open your eyes and look at me."

Opening one eye then another, Starsky was startled at what he saw.

The farmhouse was gone, replaced by the familiar warmth of the dark bedroom he shared with Hutch. The bedroom light was off but the hallway light filtered into the room, lightly illuminating scattered areas. Lucky was seated beside the bed, his head rested heavily on the mattress as he whined and looked at Starsky worriedly. And looking down at the arms wrapped around him, Starsky realized his partner was leaning against the headboard, holding him tightly to his chest.

"Are you with me now?" Hutch whispered, smoothing his fingers through Starsky's wayward curls. "Huh?"

"Yeah," Starsky whispered weakly.

"That was a hell of a dream," Hutch said softly. Shimmying down in his partner's arms, Starsky turned his head and gaze upward and found Hutch assessing him carefully. "I don't think I've _ever_ heard you scream that loud."

"I wasn't screaming."

"No? Oh, well, I must have imagined it then."

"Must have," Starsky agreed, turning his attention to the dark sky outside the bedroom window. "What time is it?"

"A little past four."

Looking at the bright light filtering shining in the hallway, Starsky sighed heavily. "Where were you?"

"What?"

"Where were you when my screaming woke you up? You obviously weren't in bed."

"I thought you weren't screaming," Hutch joked, resting his chin on Starsky's head.

"Come on, Hutch."

"I was on the couch in the living room."

"Sleeping?"

"No. Not exactly…"

"Then what?" Pulling from Hutch's arms, Starsky peered at him suspiciously. "What were you doing at four in the morning?"

"Watching TV."

"And?"

"Looking at Blackwell's journal," Hutch said nonchalantly. Crossing his arms defensively, he pressed his lips together.

"Why?"

"What do you mean _why_?"

 _Soon you will be mine._ _Starsky ran his fingers through his sweat-covered hair as the_ haunting gritty words echoed through his head. Had his dream been a warning or just a nightmare—a convenient way for his subconscious to villainize his partner for not acknowledging the unsettling developments in their personal lives and for immersing himself in the Marcus case instead of dealing with his grief?

"I don't want you looking at evidence without me," he said firmly. "I don't want you _thinking_ about this case alone."

"What?" Hutch snorted. "Are you out of your mind?"

"No, but I'm beginning to think you are!"

Hutch scoffed. "You dreamed about it, didn't you," he said, his voice low and taunting. "About silly Marcus and all the wonderful powers he doesn't have. You think I'm the one who's out of his mind, partner? You're the one who's having nightmares like a _fucking_ child!"

Resentment sparkled in Hutch's eyes and Starsky wanted so badly to respond to his unkind words. To up the ante of their argument and hurl a few hurtful accusations of his own. But he was tired—of everything. The lingering tension of the case, Hutch's strange behavior, and the haunting dreams. It no longer mattered why he was having them— if they were meant as a warning or where a manifestation of his fear—and it didn't matter what Hutch thought about any of it.

"I'm not doing this anymore," Starsky said firmly. "I'm done with it, and so are you. Tomorrow I'm talking to Dobey, and I'm telling him to pull us off this case."

Xx

"I'm not going back out there, Hutch," Starsky said stubbornly, crossing his arms and looking at his partner from the driver's seat of the Camaro. The argument from the night before lingered between them, adding another layer of tension to their already strained relationship.

" _Okay_ ," Hutch said tersely. "Then let's head to Metro, you can stay there and I'll go to the Marcus—"

"You're not going back there, either. I meant what I said: _we're done_."

Inhaling deeply, Hutch exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose under the frame of his sunglasses. "Starsky, if you really don't want to work this case just say so."

Opening his mouth to reply, Starsky bit his bottom lip instead. Eyeing the parking lot of the small diner where they had eaten a late breakfast he considered his words carefully. Breakfast had been Hutch's idea, an ill-disguised bribe meant to encourage him to reconsider his intension of going to Dobey. And it had started companionable enough, with easy conversation over less than healthful food Hutch would have never agreed to partake in under normal circumstances. But eventually the conversation had turned to the case and when Starsky had refused to reconsider the companionable mood had vanished completely, leaving Starsky struggling to control his anger and Hutch unwilling to regulate his own.

"I mean it, Starsk," Hutch continued. "If being an active detective really scares you that much, we can head back to metro and Dobey can reassign _you_ to something more your speed. I know, how about a nice traffic assignment or maybe if you're lucky you can go join the gang down at Parking Enforcement. I'm sure that's not anything that'll leave you with nightmares. That is unless, you catch old Simon Marcus double parking. I'm sure he has a special power reserved for everyone who tickets him. Maybe he'll send you a real special dream for that, like sticking you in a DMV line that never ends, surrounded by a million old ladies who won't stop offering you old hard candy and talking about their cats."

Starsky frowned. How dare Hutch use his fear against him? Just because he was willing to ignore oddness of what was happening around them it didn't give Hutch the right to be mean or cruel. Frustrated and aching for a gentler version of his partner—one who used to respect his intuition—Starsky gave into his anger.

"Just keep talking, Hutch," he shouted. "It isn't going to change the fact that I'm going to Dobey, but it might just change what I say! How about I tell him everything, huh? About how sleep deprived you are, about how you've been sleepwalking?" Anger was rushing through him now. Giving a voice to the worry and frustration that had been building within him for weeks, turning carefully ignored secrets into serious threats. "How about the three of us sit down and have a nice little chat about how you haven't been the same since your Dad died and how his death is affecting your ability to see clearly. Let's talk about that, Hutch. How you can't do _your_ fucking job correctly because you're so wrapped up in running away from whatever shit your father left you holding on to when he died that you're determined to see guilt where there isn't any!"

Blue eyes sparkling with fierce anger, Starsky and Hutch stared at one another. Each waiting for the other to hurl the next hurtful statement, their faces hardened by words that neither could take back.

"You don't know what the _fuck_ you're talking about," Hutch growled finally, fixing his gaze out the windshield.

"Yeah? Well, neither do you," Starsky said, his voice equally as sharp. "Do you want to know why I think it's a waste of time focus so hard on Marcus? Huh, Hutch? My real honest professional opinion?"

"Because you're afraid. You had a silly little nightmare and now you want to pack it all in and run away—"

"That's not the reason! And if you spent less time fixating on Marcus you'd know what the other ones are! _Jesus_ , Hutch! The guy is a creep, but we don't have anything on him! So Blackwell was seen at his place, but there isn't any evidence linking Marcus to his murder. _Shit_ , there isn't a body—we don't even know that Blackwell is dead. Maybe he skipped town, maybe he was another disenchanted rich kid looking to escape his family. Nobody has recovered his car, and we don't have any possessions linking Blackwell to Marcus—"

"His journal!" Grabbing the leather book from the Camaro's dash, Hutch waived it in front of Starsky's face. "Blackwell's journal links him to Marcus. You have no idea the kind of shit Blackwell wrote in here about his fear of Marcus and his willingness to sacrifice himself to the man... I-if you spent less time avoiding this case like scared kid, and more time reading it like have you would know what I know about Marcus and the things he convinced Blackwell to do, so don't talk to me about how they aren't connected! They couldn't be more connected."

Mouth agape, Starsky looked at Hutch oddly. Pushing the journal away from his face, he licked his bottom lip and rubbed at his mouth with his hand. Hutch couldn't be serious, could he? Certainly there was no way, his partner had to be making some terrible joke to lighten the mood.

"Marcus is the one Starsk," Hutch said instantly. "I can feel it. I—"

"Hutch, open the journal."

"What?" Hutch snorted.

Turning his in his seat, Starsky took a deep breath, his face transforming with gently worry. "Open it," he said softly. "And tell me what you see."

Holding the book tightly, Hutch did what was requested. But with flipping page after page, his face contorted with disbelief. Closing the book, he inspected the cover and verifying it was the same journal Marcus had given him before opening it once more, thumbing through frantically. The tattered worn pages of the journal were empty. Not a thing had been written inside.

"No." Hutch shook his head in disbelief. "T-there were entries in here—notes! Starsky, I… you saw." He looked at Starsky with pleading eyes. "You saw them too. I know—"

"I didn't see. I never saw and I didn't understood your interest in a book with nothing written inside. I had no idea you thought you were _reading_ it."

Closing his eyes, Hutch dropped the journal to his feet. Leaning forward he planted his elbows on knees and covered his face with his hands. It couldn't be. There had to be some kind of reasonable explanation for this—hopefully one which didn't result in believing in the impossibility of Simon Marcus's powers or having other's believe he had lost his mind.

"I don't know what's going on here," Starsky whispered, rubbing comforting circles on his partner's back. "But this is over, Hutch. We're going to talk to Dobey and we're getting the hell out of this."

Xx

"So let me make sure I'm understanding you correctly," Dobey said, tenting his hands on his desk with a frown. "You want me to take both you and your partner off the roster because you're in need of a vacation?"

"Not a vacation." Starsky grimaced. "Just a few days off, Cap—"

"Are you sick?"

"No."

"Is your partner under the weather then?"

"Uh…" Starsky hedged. "Kinda… not really."

While he had threatened to disclose everything to their superior officer, it was proving easier said than done now that the opportunity had presented itself. Though he was worried, he really didn't want to have to report on his partner's worrisome behavior, rather the minimum detail needed to convince Dobey to temporarily relieve them of their duties and re-assign the Blackwell case. They needed to get as far away from the city and Marcus as they could, at least for the time being.

"Starsky," Dobey pressed firmly. 'If you don't give me a—"

"Hutch's father died," Starsky said. He hated to say it but it was all he could think of. The only sure way to convince Dobey to release his partner. "And it's too much… this case, it was a good distraction at first, but it isn't working anymore."

"Did he say that to you?"

"No. But he didn't have to. He isn't himself, Cap. I don't really want to get into it all. But I'm sure you've noticed—"

" _Everyone_ has noticed," Dobey grunted, averting his eyes to his cluttered desk. "There's friction between the two of you—has been for a while—everyone can see it, and I've gotten a pile of complaints about your partner." He pulled a printed report from the tower stack in his inbox. "Everything from insulting remarks in the bullpen to threatening demeanor while requesting office supplies. Hutch has been quite to topic of conversation lately. I'm just disappointed it took you this long to come forward with your own concerns."

"I'm not coming to you like that. I'm not complaining, I'm not threatened by anything he has to say, and I don't want this on the record like they do." Starsky nodded at the paper in Dobey's hand. "I just… I think Hutch needs some time off. He needs to deal with his own shit so he can come back and deal with other people's."

"Well, it is quite a job isn't it?" Dobey snorted. "Putting up with all the bull-shit that floats around here."

Nodding, Starsky bit the inside of his cheek, his gaze setting on the wall behind his superior. Focusing on the familiar row of framed diplomas he ignored the sudden notion that he was betraying Hutch's confidence. Requesting they be removed from the Blackwell case was hardly betrayal yet it still felt as though it was. Even though he was only doing he had to do—what Hutch had forced him to do.

"I really hate to pull him off that case, though," Dobey sighed. "He is so damn close to breaking this thing, it seems a shame to just hand it over to someone else."

"What?" Starsky frowned. "He's not close—"

"I have a half a dozen e-mails which specify otherwise," Dobey said, pulling a manila file from the corner of his desk. "It seems his meets with Simon Marcus are really starting to pay off."

"Meets?"

"He's met with him over a dozen times." Shuffling through the printed e-mails, Dobey passed a few of them to Starsky. "Surely you knew about them."

"Uh… Of course," Starsky lied.

Flipping through the papers he noted the dates of Hutch's meets, a handful they had done together, but there were well over a dozen other which Hutch had conducted alone, the notes of which were intensely detailed. Hutch had included everything from who had been present during the meeting and nearly everything which had been said. His partner had also been able to compile a detailed map of the compound complete with hand drawn building schematics and estimation of hiding places.

Brow furrowing, Starsky struggled to comprehend what he was seeing. There was no way Hutch should have known the details he included about the Marcus compound nor should he have had the free time to compile everything he had submitted. But he did and he had, and Starsky was left, struggling to conceal his shock and anger, as he held in the evidence in his hands. Evidence which made Starsky more uncomfortable the longer he flipped through it.

 _"… Simon Marcus operates under the delusion that his dreams tell the future and speaks freely about his ability to speak to others in their dreams. By doing so he is able to actively impact how his victims view him, and therefore is able to imprint fear for the power he allegedly has in their minds, perpetuating the dangerous demeanor he has carefully crafted over the years._

 _The greatest proof of this is Detective Starsky, who grew up surrounded by the cautionary tales regarding Marcus and his alleged power. Starsky remains skittish during each meeting with Marcus and continues to struggle with phantom nightmares he believes are warnings from Marcus. Both Starsky's fear of Marcus and his nightmares were both arguably imprinted in his subconscious by his gullibility and wiliness to accept Marcus's inflated view of himself…"_

Starsky felt a flicker of anger deep inside of him. His vivid intensifying dreams had been reported. He hadn't said anything to Hutch about them prior to that morning, yet Hutch had known, and worse he had reported them; Hutch had used Starsky's fear in a derogatory, dismissive way to prove his own stubborn theory.

"Cap," Starsky said. Shutting the folder forcefully, he tossed in on Dobey desk and exhaled heavily to calm his nerves. "About the nightmares," he planted his hands awkwardly on his hips and forced a respectful tone, "I… you—"

"Don't worry about it," Dobey said, waving his hand dismissively. "When you've been on the force as long as I have you know how some cases can get under your skin. If anybody was going to get under yours, Starsky, it was going to be this guy."

"I'm that predictable, huh?" Starsky snorted. "I can deal with the junkies, rapists, murders, and all the other garbage that lands on our desk but the second some supernatural creep shows up, _everybody_ knows that's the guy that's going to get under my skin?"

"Why are you upset? You knew he was doing this. You knew Hutch was conducting meets and you knew what he was reporting…"

Opening his mouth to disagree Starsky stopped himself, but he wondered why he still felt the need to protect his partner. Why he was intent on keeping Hutch's secrets when his partner was exposing his in such a public way?

"I didn't know, Cap, at least not everything." Starsky nodded at the file. "I suspected he was meeting with Marcus, I just didn't know it was that… often, and I didn't know he thought that _way_ … about my dreams. I didn't think he viewed me as willing victim too."

"Well, don't go flying off the handle now that you do." Leaning back in his chair Dobey eyed Starsky carefully. "You're angry, which is understandable, but this isn't the first time Hutch has thrown you a curveball in a report. There's more to this. This is more than frustration over omitted details, this friction is personal."

"No friction, Cap, not between us," Starsky lied, shaking his head bitterly. "In fact, we're perfect. Hutch writes things the way he sees them and I guess I was just along for the ride."

"But now you want off and you want me to allow you to take Hutch with you."

Starsky forced himself to remain still under his Captain's intense stare and suddenly he thought he would disclose everything if Dobey asked for more explanation. Hutch's own sleepless nights, his bothersome sleepwalking—the places Starsky had found him, his anger, and withholding details regarding the Blackwell investigation. For one long agonizing moment Starsky felt a bitterness overcome him and he wanted nothing more but for Dobey to press him so he could secretly report on his partner—just as Hutch had done.

Then just as quickly as the feeling came it was gone, leaving Starsky feeling terrible and cold. While Hutch had an excuse for his dubious behavior, he did not, and Dobey didn't need to be privy to bothersome behavior which could be used against Hutch in a more permanent way. While Hutch's disclosure had been embarrassing—wounding to their personal relationship—at most, Starsky's would be damaging—both to Hutch personally and to his career— Starsky's complaint along with the stack of others would result in Hutch being pulled for evaluation at the least suspended at the most, neither of which Starsky really wanted nor would they enable him them to work through their problems—together— in a conducive way.

"I'm hoping you can trust me on this," Starsky said. "I'm hoping that you can trust my judgement and my intensions with just as much faith and certainty as you do his."

The words hung in the air. Starsky watched, his heartbeat quickening with immediate regret, as Dobey evaluated him intently, flattening his palms on his desk.

"Okay," Dobey sighed. "Get me a formal request form for yourself and I'll approve it."

"Thanks, Cap."

Feeling as though a weight had been lifted, Starsky smiled. Hutch would be angry—livid—but it would be okay. With the Blackwell case no longer between them, the oddness of the last few weeks was bound to dissipate, taking with it his violent dreams and Hutch's unpredictable emotions—though those were certain to remain a bit longer. At least until Hutch decided to deal with his father's death, but without the strain of the Blackwell disappearance and liberating them from Marcus's persistent presence, Starsky could deal with that—he could endure most anything to ensure Hutch remained intact at his side.

"Oh, and Starsky."

"Yeah?"

"Just for the record, I do trust your judgement and intensions with just as much faith and certainty as I do your partner's." Dobey smiled. "You tell Hutch I want to see him."

"Sure thing, Cap."

Xx

Pushing through the door separating Dobey's office from the bullpen, it didn't take long for the warmth of Dobey's assuring words to fade. Quickly striding to their shared desk he shoved at the contents of the Blackwell file which Hutch had scattered haphazardly, laying intermixed with random notes and contents of their desk.

Hutch was gone. Leaving only a mess and handwritten post it note stuck to Starsky's dark laptop screen behind.

 _Starsk—borrowed your car. Call you later. H._

"God damn-it!"

Crumpling the note, Starsky threw it angrily at the floor. Planting his hands on his hips, he huffed a series of angry breaths as the detectives, sitting at their scattered desks among the room, pretended to ignore him while carefully watching out of the corner of their eyes.

This was the static Dobey had advised him that everyone had felt, Starsky realized with a snort. How many times had they done this since taking the Blackwell case? How many disagreements had they engaged in under the prying eyes of others? How many times had Hutch openly teased Starsky for his belief of Marcus's powers, and how many times had Starsky just as openly refused to give into Hutch's zealous belief of Marcus's guilt?

And in the end, the case had dissolved into a very public tug-of-war between their different point-of-views. Tug-of-war over Hutch's grief, really, Starsky realized tilting his head. Hutch hadn't wanted to talk so he pushed Starsky away, withholding information from him in every conceivable way possible, at home and on the case. And Starsky, struggling to support Hutch in the proper way while combating his own growing uneasiness about Marcus had allowed Hutch to push him away. Giving into his own fear regarding the case, he had allowed his partner to get as far away from his as he pleased.

While Starsky couldn't change the other times had ended, this one he could. Turning his laptop on, Starsky sat heavily at his desk and pulled a notepad out of his desk drawer. Flipping back a few pages to find a handwritten code, he clicked an icon on his desktop, and typed in his credentials bringing the GPS tracking program to life. Biting his bottom lip he tapped his fingers on his desk, nervously debating on whether he really wanted verification of where Hutch was headed. While he longed to trust his partner, he knew he couldn't.

Sighing heavily, Starsky typed Hutch's phone number into the program, and seconds later, when a map with his partner's coordinates appeared on the screen, Starsky felt like he had been punched in the stomach, because while he had succeeded in getting Dobey to pull them from the Blackwell case, he had failed to convince Hutch to stay away from Simon Marcus.

And with his nightmare fresh in his mind coupled with Hutch's realization about the contents of Blackwell's journal, Starsky couldn't suppress the devastating feeling that something was about to go incredibly wrong.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Current Day:**

Shifting uncomfortably, Starsky peered out the front window and watched Hutch park his beat-up SUV in front of Rosie and Al's house. His heartbeat quickened, transforming nervousness into an odd combination of excitement and dread as he watched his partner pull himself from the vehicle and walk to the front door.

Hutch looked good. Even beneath the worn Oakland A's cap and behind dark lenses of his sunglasses Starsky could see how rested he was—a vast difference from the last time they'd seen each other. His loose-fit jeans hung slightly lower on his muscular frame, and Starsky recognized the well-loved gray and blue long sleeve flannel shirt his partner wore, with the sleeves cuffed at just the right length on his forearms. Face breaking into a small smile, Starsky realized that despite what he'd gone through, all the horrible things Marcus had influenced, Hutch still looked like Hutch; he still looked like home.

Abruptly opening the door, Starsky watched through the screen door window as Hutch jumped. His outstretched hand lingered in front of the doorbell briefly before he pulled it back to remove his sunglasses, depositing them in his shirt pocket before allowing his arm to fall limply to his side. And for moment they stared at each other, both wide-eyed and too anxious to speak.

"Uh, hi," Hutch said, smiling nervously as Starsky slowly opened the screen door.

Hiding half his body behind the protection of the door, Starsky gripped the handle tightly and eyed Hutch carefully, his blue eyes sparkling with a mixture of joy and fear as he stood frozen in place. He found himself suddenly powerless to say anything. While seeing Hutch from the behind safety of the living room window had been relieving, standing in such close proximity was slowly filling him with dread.

"You, uh," Hutch continued apprehensively. "Wanna come out or..." He pointed inside the house, but Starsky didn't answer nor did his odd expression waiver. "Or we could just stand here and stare awkwardly at each other." Hutch cringed as his nervousness took over and the soft words slipped out. Hiding behind sarcasm was pointless now, and there was too much as stake to revert to old habits now. "Sorry."

"You can come in," Starsky said, eyeing the house across the street as he held the screen door open wider. "I think we've put on enough of a show."

Turning, Hutch followed Starsky's gaze and found John Blaine's wife, Margaret, watering flowers and watching their interaction covertly.

"Yeah," Hutch sighed. Then forcing a smile, he raised his hand and waived. If the last few weeks had taught him anything it was that it was better to deal with people's curiosity head on. But still, he found himself wondering how much John knew about what Starsky had suffered and what Margaret knew by association. Surely, she had seen the news after it had happened. Or caught one of the nauseating soundbites the local stations had played when broadcasting one follow up story after the next, none of which seemed to have accurate details of what had really gone down—or so Lucas Huntley had assured him, as Hutch hadn't actually watched any of the reports.

"You see much of Blaine these days?" Hutch asked, nodding at the house across the street.

"Not really. I haven't really wanted to see anyone, and almost everybody has been good about giving me space."

The words, though innocent enough, stung Hutch in a way he didn't quite understand. And entering the house, he found himself wondering if they hadn't been meant for him. If he was somehow intruding on his partner's space even though Starsky had finally requested his presence.

Following Starsky down the hallway to the privacy of the living room, Hutch didn't dare another word. Starsky remained uncharacteristically quiet, and Hutch noted the hunched over way Starsky walked and the stiffness to his gate. Though he looked worlds better than he had in the hospital, it was obvious Starsky was still struggling with whatever physical injuries remained, and realizing he had no idea what those were Hutch felt a wave of sadness.

It never should have been this way. He shouldn't have allowed Starsky disappear to his Aunt and Uncle's home to hide away for nearly a month; he should have been more assertive, more demanding of his role in Starsky's life. Then maybe neither of them would be where they were now. But the train of thought was self-serving so Hutch dismissed it. The idea of forcing Starsky to return home with him after being discharged from the hospital remained as improbable as it was at the time, because the ugly truth still remained.

His horrible choices had fractured their relationship; his actions were the reason Starsky didn't feel safe enough to return home.

Walking into the living room, Hutch bit back a comment as he took in the TV set. The volume was muted but the screen was active, displaying the silent argument of two overly tan people of some irreverent reality show. He wanted to believe Starsky hadn't been hiding himself away, filling his days and his head with useless junk TV but the wrinkled dent in the sectional and the scattered throw blankets laying across it told him a different story. Starsky had been camping out in this room for quite a while.

Hutch frowned, his worry for Starsky deepening. He'd been privy to this type of isolating behavior before. The last time was when a bust had gone particularly bad. It had started with a suspect blowing Starsky and Hutch's cover in middle of a crowded shopping mall, and had ended with a teenage boy being killed by a stray bullet which was eventually linked to Starsky's gun. Starsky had taken two weeks of administrative leave and parked himself on the couch. Not saying or doing much of anything outside of watching TV, his heart churning with unexpressed guilt and grief. Hutch had stood by powerless to help him, eventually canceling the cable just to get Starsky off the couch.

Hutch recalled wondering at the time how any situation they could ever navigate would be worse. But this was worse. And it wouldn't be solved by canceling the cable and forcing Starsky to talk about how he felt or back into their routine as cops. This time was different, it wasn't a terrible twist of fate, an ill-timed bullet which had filled Starsky with grief, it had been him. And even after the weeks that had passed, a part of Hutch still wondered how he was supposed to comfort Starsky—if he even had a right to do so.

"You, uh…" Starsky said awkwardly. "…wanna sit?"

"Not really."

"Me either," Starsky admitted, grounding his bare-feet on the soft carpet.

Watching Starsky nervous movement, Hutch noted his tattered kaki cargo shorts, the black quarter zip pullover hiked to his elbows, and the bandage tapped to his cheek. The clothes were old, comfortable and familiar. But the bandage was new, white and sterile it ignited a deep flicker of pain in Hutch's heart. His actions had put the scar on Starsky's cheek, a permanent reminder that Marcus had been real, as was the damage of everything he had done.

Glancing up at him, Starsky bit his lip and stuck his hands deep in his pockets, making him look younger than he was and incredibly lost. A wayward kid trying desperately to hold on to the sliver of strength slipping through his fingertips. Suddenly, Hutch wanted nothing more than to hold his partner close and sooth away his fear.

"Can I hug you?" Hutch asked before he could stop himself. He felt a flash of regret and disappointment as Starsky's face contorted with panic and he averted his eyes to the wall. "I-I'm sorry," he added softly, hanging his head and shutting his eyes. "I shouldn't have asked—"

"I guess that would be okay," Starsky whispered, his voice almost too soft to hear. Biting harshly at his bottom lip he stood in place as Hutch slowly closed the gap between them and pulled him gently into his arms.

The touch felt good, not nearly as off putting or terror inducing as Starsky had anticipated. Leaning the side of his head in the crook of his partner's neck he closed his eyes. Taking a deep breath to calm his nerves he found himself comforted by the familiar scent of his partner, a hint of cologne, the weird smell of the organic deodorant Hutch insisted on wearing, and the crisp clean scent of dryer sheets, all somehow intermixing perfectly and reminding Starsky of who he was, and who they had been together.

"I missed you, buddy," Hutch whispered deeply, easily reverting to the old moniker reserved for private assurance in public places.

 _Buddy_. Hutch closed his eyes as he thought of word. Their own secret code of calling each other baby when the surroundings were unsafe. And while Rosie and Al's living room should have felt like a safe place for Hutch to use a different endearment, it didn't. There was still too much pain and uncertainty lingering between them for Hutch to venture a more overt endearment.

Starsky's nervousness was palpable, his body rigid and uncomfortable. But determined not to let his partner's discomfort spike his own anxiety, Hutch forced himself to ignore it. Weeks ago Al had advised Hutch he needed to be strong for Starsky and he intended to do so. Holding Starsky as tightly as he dare, Hutch pushed away his worry regarding his partner's uneasiness, focusing instead on the feeling of Starsky's warm body and the steady rhythm of his heart. Starsky was alive; though it was something he had known all along, Hutch realized that a part of him hadn't actually believed it before this moment.

"I'm sorry," Hutch whispered.

Opening his mouth, Starsky started to respond Hutch's statement, but visions of Marcus's compound lingered in the back of his memory, rushing forward to assault him with painful reminders what had been done. Overwhelmed with debilitating fear, Starsky choked on his words.

It was all wrong, so _incredibly_ wrong.

Though his instinct was to pull away, Starsky found himself too afraid to move. His heart was telling him his reaction to Hutch was insane, that he shouldn't be this afraid. But his brain was eager to remind him of what had been done; the terrible ways in which his partner had harmed him. Pressing his forehead against Hutch's shoulder, he let out a sob.

Hutch cringed at the sound. Deep, desperate, and somehow foreign, he had never known Starsky to cry quite so readily. He longed to comfort his partner, to sooth away the pain and the fear which motivated such a sound. Rubbing Starsky's back, he ventured a soft kiss on the top of Starsky's curls as his partner sobbed once more.

"It's okay," Hutch whispered, his voice deep old assurances came quickly as he held Starsky tight. "It's all alright now."

"N-no... It...isn't..."

"Shhhhhh."

"I-it's n-not o-kay!" Starsky sobbed hysterically, and pulling abruptly from Hutch's arms, tears streamed freely down Starsky's face as he turned his back on his partner.

Bending slightly, his breaths came in silent sobs and his throat burned as Starsky struggled to control the anxiety threatening to overwhelm him. Pulling his sleeves over his palms he swiped at his cheeks only to have more tears spill from his eyes, replacing the ones which had been wiped away. Stinging as they ran down his reddened face, some of his tears spilled to the floor while others were collected by the bandage on his cheek.

"Starsky," Hutch whispered, his voice a low rumble of understanding. "You're right, it isn't okay."

Walking slowly, Hutch moved to stand behind his trembling partner. Longing to touch Starsky again, he held himself back. Given the current state of their relationship and the terror he knew his partner was chastising himself for not being able to contain, Hutch didn't want to frighten him further. Regretfully he realized that any physical contact would have be initiated by Starsky, and any move forward would be on Starsky's terms.

"But I'm here, Buddy," Hutch added. "And I'm sorry for what happened. _Christ_ , I will always be _sorry_."

Combating another wave of sobs, Starsky bit his bottom lip. Struggling to control the grief he felt building inside of him he longed to hold on his anger. To hurl hurtful words and accusations which would protect him from how he really felt. But it was impossible. Hutch's presence was too soft, his face to gentle, his touch too familiar to allow Starsky to hold on to anything other than anguish over what had been done.

This had been a mistake; it was much too early for him to think about moving forward with Hutch. While Starsky had told Hutch he was ready to talk, he hadn't thought about what he was going to say or do. Contacting his partner had been knee-jerk, a reactive response to Doctor Evan's careful guidance and a way to get his Aunt Rosie and Uncle Al to cease their constant pestering.

What was he doing? He wasn't ready to see Hutch, to deal with what had happened any more than he was ready to accept what Marcus had wanted or done.

"Maybe this was mistake," Hutch whispered, giving a voice to Starsky's troubled thoughts as he took a step away from his avoidant partner. "Maybe you're not ready to do this. Maybe I should leave you alone for a while longer and you can tell me later what you want to do."

Hearing the defeated longing in Hutch's tone—the hint of grief his partner was struggling to conceal—Starsky felt his heart drop.

"No."

Turning in place, Starsky's gaze darted around the room momentarily before finding Hutch again, but this time Starsky was comforted by what he saw. Hutch— _his Hutch_ —face sad, body language apologetic, and eyes sparkling with a slightest bit of hope, and only then did Starsky know what he needed to do. Bottom lip quivering, he considered his next words. What they would mean to them and for the future.

"You can't make it up to me if you're set on leaving all the time," Starsky said, voice wavering. "You say you're sorry, but what are you gonna do about it?"

Mouth agape, Hutch stared dumbly. His partner's words were everything he had hoped for; the opportunity had spent three torturous weeks waiting to hear and Hutch was determined not to waste it.

"I'm gonna do whatever it takes to make sure we get through this," Hutch vowed firmly. "And I'm _never_ going to hurt you again, I promise."

Xx

 **Months Prior:**

Speeding down the familiar dirt road, Hutch gripped the Camaro's steering wheel tightly and blew out deep calming breaths as he struggled to control the aching rage he felt in his pounding heart. Sitting face up in the passenger seat, his iPhone lit up for the millionth time, displaying the long preview list of text messages and missed calls. Snorting disgustedly, Hutch turned his gaze out the windshield and ignored Starsky's frantic attempts to contact him once again.

It was too soon to talk about being pulled from the case—which Hutch knew was inevitably what happened after Starsky's meeting with Dobey—and Hutch was too angry to contribute to a constructive conversation regarding Starsky's decision to go to their superior with what he knew.

Glancing at his watch Hutch noted the time, mentally calculating how long it had been since he had watched Starsky enter Dobey's office and the timing of Starsky's first phone call. Too much time had passed for Starsky to have quickly talked Dobey into removing them from the Blackwell case, and too little for Starsky and Dobey to have traded every disreputable detail each knew about Hutch's recent behavior, leaving Hutch anxiously speculating about what information had actually been exchanged.

Starsky had threatened to disclose everything they had been struggling with at home, and Hutch realized his additional visits to the Marcus compound as well as his dubious assessment of Starsky's dreams were not likely to remain secret for long. There was little chance Dobey would have withheld information which he believed Starsky was already privy to. Though the idea of Starsky knowing what Hutch had done behind his back wasn't pleasant, it was mild in comparison to the panic Hutch was feeling at the moment.

Brian Blackwell's journal was blank, and he had believed he was _reading_ it.

Hutch knew there was no comfortable explanation for the journal or what he believed he had been seeing. The words he had read, the terrifying, horrible stories of what Blackwell had endured and the recounted details regarding Blackwell's determined insistence to believe in Marcus and his powers were unsettling. Either Hutch had cracked under the pressure of the case—unknowingly snapped as some undermined point—and he had imagined the brutal journal entries or Marcus really did have the powers he had been so determined to discredit. But neither option was good. One meant he had lost his mind, the other was something he remained determined not to believe.

The Camaro's wheels sped down the dirt road, kicking up dust and debris, and Hutch cursed himself for ignoring Starsky's warnings— his partner's panicked voice of reason he should have listened to. Starsky had asked him to stop, to take time off and take care of himself or to at least view Marcus with more care. To respect the stories they had heard and the man whom was rumored to have control over the impossible. And stubbornly Hutch had refused to do either.

But now, speeding down the rocky path, which would lead him to Marcus one last time, Hutch was determined to do both. One way or another he would uncover the truth, then he would return to the city, accept their removal from the Blackwell case, and whatever horrible conversation awaited him at home.

Xx

"What the _hell_ is this?"

Standing before the aged apothecary table, Hutch slammed Blackwell's journal in front of Marcus; the violent motion did nothing to falter Marcus's calmness but Gale, standing erect beside his seated leader, jumped, his nervous gaze frozen on the irritated detective.

"I believed you were past asking questions you know the answer to," Marcus said evenly. Pulling the book closer, he flipped through the pages, his sinister smile growing wider with each passing second. "Were you able to read what Brother Brian wrote?" He gazed at Hutch, his eyes glistening with satisfaction. "His words which other's would not understand?"

"The journal is _blank_ ," Hutch scowled. Planting his palms on the table, he leaned over the desk. Lowering his gaze to Marcus's eye level, his face darkened and be continued in a dangerous whisper, "I can't read what doesn't exist."

Taking a step forward, Gale prepared himself to intervene, but Marcus calmly waived him away.

"It is only blank to those it who were not meant to read it," Marcus said simply. "Starsky cannot see the words because they are not meant for him."

"Or because it's blank," Hutch growled. Pulling himself from the table he planted his hands on his hips and scowled.

"Is that why you and Starsky argued?" Marcus countered knowingly. "Over something which was blank?"

Taking a step back, Hutch clenched his fists tightly. What was Marcus alluding to? He didn't know; he _couldn't_ possibly know that Starsky had been the one to show Hutch the truth of what the journal held.

"No," Marcus said calmly, his eyes sparkling with understanding. "You argued because he could not see the words which you saw so easily."

Gapping at Marcus, Hutch tried hard to hold on to his skepticism and cynical anger. But the way Marcus was looking at him made his skill crawl, and the haunting words he spoke so freely were somehow worse. Hutch found himself suddenly overcome by the notion that Marcus was right, because now he knew—with unwavering certainty he knew—something horrible had happened between them, but he couldn't remember what it was.

Why couldn't he remember what it was?

"You will remember," Marcus assured. "You've hidden it from yourself, but soon you will see. You will see yourself how I see you, the way Starsky is afraid to see you." Laying the journal in on the table front of him, Marcus grinned. "It is the fear which lives inside of Starsky that will not allow him to see the words you read."

"Starsky couldn't read the journal because it's blank," Hutch whispered, his voice deep, hoarse, and unconvincing. "It's blank," he added, as though repeating the statement would make it true.

"I suggest you take another look." Marcus beamed indicating at the journal. "And tell me what you see."

"No."

Shaking his head, Hutch took a step back, then another and another. He had no intention of following Marcus's suggestions—no matter how small. His fear was crippling, a suffocating mixture of regret and dread raged though him as he lifted his hands and rested them on his head.

He had been wrong and coming here had been a mistake. He should have waited for Starsky to finish with Dobey. Everything could have been so different if he would have listened to Starsky and waited. But instead, he had left. Betraying Starsky's wishes and his trust, he had fled to Marcus, just like Marcus had said he would.

"You came to me because you wanted to," Marcus said. "Time after time you came to me. Do you not remember our walks? When I shouldered the burdens you carry within you. The time when you felt free and whole."

Trapped in place, Hutch felt an odd sensation overwhelm him. A strange numbness crept through his body, leaving his legs too heavy to move. His brain was screaming for him to leave, to turn and run from the room, but his feet remained immobile, his gaze fixed on Marcus's eerie stare.

Was this what Starsky had felt in this very room when first visiting Marcus's compound? Were these the debilitating sensations and crippling fear Hutch had been so quick to dismiss?

"What Starsky felt was not the same," Marcus said matter-of-factly. "His fear allowed him to see what has happened and what is to be. Your disbelief has protected you, shielded your eyes from the truth."

Dread filling his heart, Hutch forced a deep breath and struggled to control his frantic thoughts. He needed to control his fear, to somehow hold on to something else more powerful. Digging deep, he felt a tiny flicker of anger, a hint of his hatred for Marcus and the things the man had done.

"You think your anger will save you from what has been done," Marcus laughed. "That it will be enough to save Starsky?"

 _Starsky_.

His partner's name elicited a jolt of concerned fear, followed by a strange surge of anger. Turning his thoughts to their earlier conversation, Hutch felt anger burn in his chest. It grew as he recounted each thing Starsky had stated he was aware of but Hutch was certain he couldn't possibly understand.

The blank journal—Blackwell's horrifying tales which Hutch had been studying for weeks— his sleepwalking, his wavering control over his emotions— the violent mood swings peppered by unbearable silence he had been displaying for months— all secrets Starsky surely had used as ammunition with Dobey to get his way.

But what else did Starsky know?

The orphan thought sprung to Hutch's mind. Making the knowledge that Starsky went to Dobey intimidating— _threatening_. Starsky had alluded he knew more, how much more did he really know? About Hutch's relationship with his father, the hidden details which had haunted him since his death. Details which if disclosed would leave Hutch scandalized and facing an uphill battle to regain his footing in his life and his career.

Hutch's anger transformed to panic. What else did Starsky know? The haunting question repeated over and over in Hutch's mind, in perfect rhythm to his frantic heartbeat.

"He knows," Marcus assured. "And you were foolish to think he would not find out."

Hanging his head, Hutch forced a deep breath, willing his increasing heartrate to calm. Marcus was lying; Starsky didn't know, and if he had his way, he never would. It was the one secret he would never share—something which had happened so long ago that some days he wondered if it had actually happened at all.

"It happened," Marcus continued. "And Starsky knows. He knows what has happened and what is to come. He has dreamed it as I have. Fate has shown herself to him, to prepare him for what he is to do and the sacrifice he is meant to give for you to take your proper place."

The unsettling words reverberated in Hutch's mind. He wanted to hit Marcus, to yell and discredit the statement, but his mouth refused to comply as his body remained frozen in place. For a moment, it felt as though someone was holding him down—he felt strong hands pressing on his shoulders, holding him hostage to Marcus's penetrating stare.

"Leave us," Marcus said, his gaze not faltering as he pointed at Gale. "Brother Kenneth and I need some time to discuss what is and what will be."

Gasping, Hutch's stomach lurched and he prayed he had misheard the man. _Brother Kenneth_? It just wasn't true; it wasn't possible. How could Marcus make such as horrible accusation?

Nodding at Marcus, Gale turned his attention to Hutch, and steadily holding his gaze he slowly retreated from the room. Noting the uncontainable excitement glowing in Gale's eyes, Hutch's skin crawled as an icy coldness enveloped his body.

This was wrong. Somewhere along the line, something had gone _incredibly_ wrong.

Time moved slowly after Gale left the room. Breathing heavily, Hutch remained frozen in place. Pressure from unseen hands bore into his shoulders, grounding him where he stood and leaving him powerless to look away from Marcus's piercing gaze.

Marcus assessed Hutch disappointedly as his calm demeanor slowly melted away, leaving his dark eyes angry and his body rigid. But when he spoke his voice remained soft, only hinting at the threat lurking just beneath the words.

"I am disappointed in you. You have walked with me yet you remain unconvinced of my word. You remain unwilling to accept your place when I have gone to great lengths to communicate it to you."

Hutch felt hands grip his throat, squeezing impossibly tight. Silently screaming, his stomach lurched as he thought of his dreams of Marcus, the strange places he had awoke after fits of sleepwalking. Marcus had conducted his movements, his powerful hand had shaped everything which had unfolded.

"You came to me, acting as though your visits were for another, but they were not," Marcus said firmly. "You acted as though your decisions where to benefit another, but they were for yourself. If you wanted to find Brother Blackwell you could have do so by now. You know what happened to him. I have told you, just as Starsky was told in his dreams. Yet still you refuse to accept what you know."

Black dots dancing in his vision, Hutch struggled to breath. The pressure on his shoulders intensified, leaving his body aching as a deep pain radiated through his bones. His mind filled with panic as tears slipped from his eyes.

"I gave you everything," Marcus continued. "I provided you with the knowledge which you needed to understand, yet you do not want it. I allowed you to come here, to document what you saw, to report it to your superiors, yet you still do not understand. I will have what is needed to give fate what she wants. And you will bring Starsky to me."

Suddenly, the pressure was gone, leaving Hutch gasping for air and off-balance, sending him tumbling to the floor. Coughing, Hutch forced himself to swallow, his dry throat stung in protest as he hoisted himself up on his hands and peered up at Marcus with watery eyes.

"You can't have him," Hutch croaked defiantly. "I won't do it."

"You will say you do not remember," Marcus beamed, his eyes glistening in satisfaction. "Yet you have already given him to me. In exchange for the burden of your secrets, you have _given_ him to _me_."


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Months Prior:**

Cursing his way through the dense early evening traffic, Hutch returned home in record time. He had tried to calling Starsky countless time on the way home—frantically trying to make contact to verify his partner's safety—but each call remained unanswered, spiking Hutch's anxiety and filling him with full-bodied dread. Speeding into the driveway, he hastily threw the Camaro in park, before pulling the keys from the ignition, spilling from the vehicle, and sprinting toward the beach house he shared with his partner.

"Starsky!" he shouted bursting through the front door. Laying lazily on the sectional, Lucky's head darted up inquisitively as Hutch repeated the frantic word, "Starsky!"

Slamming the door behind him, Hutch's eyes darted around the empty living area and connecting kitchen as the house remained quiet. Why wasn't his partner responding? What if he was too late? What is Starsky was already gone?

"Starsky!" he shouted again, and Lucky jumped off the sectional, letting out a series of low whines as he briskly followed Hutch's heels.

"Starsky!"

Looking out backdoor, Hutch took in the patio and the empty backyard before moving down the hallway. His apprehension was unbearable and increasing steadily with each area of the house he found vacant. Rushing to their closed bedroom door, he threw it open and the last flicker of hope died in his chest.

The room was empty, and Starsky was gone.

"No," he whispered, shaking his head as Marcus's words weighted heavily on his mind: _You have already have given him to me._ "No, no, no, _Star_ —"

"What!" Starsky yelled. Pulling the master bathroom door open, he stood shirtless in the doorway. " _Jesus Christ_ , Hutch! Tone it down will you? You're gonna upset the neigh—" the terse statement was cut off as Hutch wrapped him up in a frantic hug. "What's the matter with you?"

Closing his eyes, Hutch sighed in relief. He wasn't too late; Starsky was fine and Marcus was wrong. He had to be wrong.

"Hutch?" Starsky asked worriedly as his partner's tight hold didn't waiver. "What's going on?"

"Nothing."

"It doesn't feel like nothing. Babe, you're shaking."

"Why didn't you answer me?" Hutch whispered accusingly, his voice gruff and stern as he pressed his chin into Starsky's shoulder. "I really _hate_ it when you don't answer me."

"Well, I really hate it when you take my car without asking me," Starsky countered, his gentleness fading as he pulled back and frowned. "Where did you go this afternoon, huh?"

"Nowhere," Hutch lied, his gaze dropping to the floor. The automatic action was a problem; he never could look his partner in the eye and lie to him. Setting his eyes on Lucky, who lay at their feet, Hutch could feel Starsky's simmering anger and frustration, but focusing on the dog's spotted fur, he held his breath and ignored his partner's silent fury.

They should probably talk about things, Hutch knew that. Somewhere in the back of his mind, buried under fear fueled self-preservation and avoidance, he knew this would be a perfect opportunity to share what they both knew about Simon Marcus and his power.

But something stopped him. A little tiny sliver of an idea which gave his fear a voice. What was the point of talking about Marcus now? Starsky was safe and Hutch had no intention of seeing Marcus again, and Marcus had no way of making him do anything—he was powerless as long as Hutch decided not to comply.

Together he and Starsky were safe; nothing bad could happen if they remained that way.

"Nowhere," Starsky snorted. "Is that what they're calling the Marcus place these days?"

Hutch's head snapped up. How had Starsky known that?

 _He knows,_ Marcus's words rushed through Hutch's thoughts, eliciting a wave of panic. What did Starsky know, and how did he know it? Had Marcus been controlling him too?

"How would you know?" Hutch asked, his voice tense and deep. Regret rushed through him as he realized his tone was all wrong and so were the words. There were a million other things he should have said—and a thousand other things they needed to talk about.

Starsky's face darkened and his eyes sparkled with fury as he lost control. "How would I know?!" he exclaimed. "Well, I sure as _shit_ didn't hear from you!" He stalked to the closet, and pulling a clean button up shirt from the rack he thrust his arms angrily through the sleeves. "In fact, there's an awful lot I found out today that I didn't hear from you."

"I'm sorry."

"You're sorry!" Starsky snorted. "Oh, that helps. I can't _fucking_ believe you would do this, Hutch! You made me look like a moron in your reports." Buttoning his shirt he advanced on his partner. "It was fine you that didn't believe me," he added, his voice low and angry. "I didn't like it, but I was okay with it because I know how much you want to be a skeptic, the cynical one, the strong one who knows _everything_ there is to ever know about _anything_ —"

"Starsky—"

"Save it!" Starsky flung a warning index finger inches away from Hutch's nose. Glancing between the finger and Hutch he snorted. "Cute move, huh? I got it from you."

Hutch looked at the floor. Starsky's words had left a guilty ache in the pit of his stomach and awakened the nervousness he only just repressed. It was terrible, the things he had done, the things Marcus still believed he would do.

There was no denying Starsky was right; he had conducted himself inappropriately. Turning the investigation into a full-blown private party, he had disrespected Starsky as a work partner and deliberately disregarded the damage his cynicism and secrecy were inflicting upon their personal relationship. And there was a mountain of damage, Hutch knew it by the way Starsky was avoiding his gaze. His partner's anger and frustration was still palpable, and Hutch was at a loss of what to say.

"Starsky," he whispered softly. "I don't want to be any of those things."

"Oh, but you are," Starsky growled. "So maybe you oughta think about that a little." Turning away abruptly, he strode to the door. "And when you can decide who you are and how you want to be let me know."

"Wait, _where_ are you going?"

Hutch wasn't eager to continue their agreement, but the idea of Starsky leaving made his stomach flip. Marcus's words still lingered, seeping into his mind they fed the anxiety in his chest and a panic in his heart.

What if Marcus was right?

What if by some insane twist of fate he had actually _gifted_ Starsky to him? It sounded impossible, but then again so were things Marcus had forced him to experience earlier. The dread he had felt was incomparable to anything else Hutch could recall, as was the unsettling fact that Marcus had been in his head. Fingering through his thoughts and controlling his body the experience had been petrifying—and those were only the things he had remembered from that afternoon. How many other times had Marcus done that? During his uncontrollable sleepwalking spells how many other things had Marcus whispered to him? How many other things had Marcus influenced him to do?

He didn't know. Panic bubbled in his chest as Hutch realized he _didn't know_.

Hesitating in doorway, Starsky didn't respond immediately. Inhaling deeply he pinched the bridge of his nose and pushed all the air out of his chest, as he struggled to hang on to what was left of his patience.

Crossing his arms, Hutch pressed his palms to his sides. His mind was racing—screaming—to make Starsky stay. He felt as though he was stuck in a terrible dream—a horrible nightmare—where somehow he could feel the dreadful things which were to come, but was powerless to stop it.

 _In exchange for the burden of your secrets, you have given him to me,_ Marcus's haunting statement came rushing back, and Hutch considered the words he had been quick to forget.

Marcus believed his hold over Hutch something to do with the secrets he carefully guarded for years—things Hutch longed to forget, the details of which he never wanted to share with Starsky. But looking at his partner's turned back, Hutch had new thought. If Marcus was someone feeding off the deep fear he felt over the threat of Starsky knowing what had happened all those years ago, then maybe sharing it would somehow void the claim he thought he had? And for a moment, he didn't think about the repercussions of doing such a thing, letting his arms drop he took a step forward.

"Starsky, I-I have to tell you something."

"I need a night off from this, Hutch. I'm done talking."

"But—"

" _Jesus_ , everything has to be your way, doesn't it?" Starsky fumed. "I said _no_. I _need_ a break from this. A second to think about all this shit that's been stuck between us without having to worrying about the repercussions of what I say, something you obviously don't think about!" Grinding his feet against the floor, he exhaled a tense breath. "Look," he added, his tone softening. "I'm sorry your dad died, babe, but it doesn't give you the right to do half the shit you did. It doesn't mean you get to check out and ignore everything important around you. To yell and scream when it suits you or treat me like a dumbass and a complete stranger. It doesn't mean you get a free pass for lying to me about your visits with Marcus and it doesn't make selling me out to Dobey okay."

"I know."

His partner's soft words were disarming and Hutch fought guilty tears as Starsky' shoulders sank. All the time he had spent ignoring his pain over the past had been wasted, just like all the other opportunities that had come and gone—too many over the years to count—all much better moments he could have chosen to disclose the truth of his past with his partner. Before Hutch had told himself he wasn't ready, but now it was Starsky who was choosing to hide.

An all at once, his terror was gone, leaving him with an overwhelming sadness and grief. The case was over. His dangerous interest in Marcus was gone, vanishing to make place for a deep-rooted fear, because now he knew what Marcus had been after—he finally understood the power the man held. And it was only now that Hutch fully realized the price he had paid to learn such a thing. He had discovered Marcus was someone to be genuinely feared but it had cost him the ease of Starsky's love.

"Can you at least tell me where you're going?" Hutch asked.

Starsky didn't answer, nor did he turn, and for a terrible moment Hutch was afraid he wouldn't tell him at all. Watching his partner grip the doorframe tightly, he was suddenly overwhelmed by the idea that Starsky hadn't intended to come back.

"I'm gonna go shoot pool at Huggy's," Starsky whispered. His tone had lost its edge, but a hint of sadness had crept in. "Probably have a couple of drinks and blow off some steam. And tomorrow, you're gonna have a sit down with Dobey and then you're gonna have one with me."

Not trusting his voice, Hutch nodded as Starsky disappeared down the hallway.

Xx

"What are you gonna do about it, huh?" Huggy asked. Standing at the edge of the pool table, he eyed Starsky skeptically and chalked the end of his pool cue. "Leave him?"

Scanning the sparsely filled back pool room of The Pits, Starsky sighed heartily. He had no intension of leaving Hutch—as if he ever really could. Recent strife aside, untangling himself from Hutch was out of the question. Their romantic connection was too strong, their work partnership too cohesive, and notion of removing Hutch from his life was as appealing as cutting off a limb. They were too good together to ever be apart.

"No. I'm not going to leave him. I just want him to stop being such a cynical smart-ass."

"I thought you liked his cynicism." Leaning over the pool table, Huggy hit his cue off the white cue ball and proceeded to pocket the two remaining striped balls. "In fact, I think I recall you saying you _loved_ him for it," he added, walking around the table to quickly pocket the eight ball. "That it was a nice refreshing quality to balance the two of you out."

"I do." Starsky looked the pool table in disgust. "But I wish it wasn't so fucking annoying. I swear sometimes I don't even understand why he does half the shit he does."

"He'd probably say the same about you," Huggy mumbled, striding to sit at their high top table. Drinking the remaining contents of his beer glass, he watched Starsky re-rack the balls. "Though, the guy does come off like an island, doesn't he?" he added moment later, reaching for the pitcher of beer next to Starsky's glass. "The way he doesn't like to need anybody."

"Island? _Shit_ , ever since his dad died, he's been his own fucking planet. Stoic. Avoidant. Arrogant as ever—"

"That's to be expected, right? I mean, it's Hutch. He did lose his Dad and stoicism when he's really hurting is kind of his thing. You being offended about that is like him getting upset because you threw an angry tantrum instead of talking about something."

"I do _not_ have tantrums!" Starsky snorted indignity, forcefully moving the full ball rack on the pool table. The balls knocked against each other and series of satisfying solid clicks filled the room before he finally pulled the back rack away. "I just happen to be a very passionate person."

"And so is your partner. That's what makes you so good for each other. But you know what they say, man, when it's good it's _good_ , and when it's bad it's _bad_."

"Yeah."

"Besides, this isn't the first time you guys have had a bad rumble, and it won't be the last. You're both stubborn as hell and determined to do things your own way. I don't think you should let this get you down too much. I bet if you put yourself in Hutch's shoes you would have done the same—"

"I wouldn't have," Starsky seethed, stalking to the table he shook his head vehemently. "I _never_ would have iced him out for this long _or_ made repeat contact with a suspect without his knowledge _or_ made him look like a gullible moron in an official report."

"Uh, huh." Huggy looked unconvinced. "Look, all I'm saying is, you've both done things to each other over the years. And it isn't exactly like Hutch was hiding how he felt about Simon Marcus. Maybe he was doing the meets alone because he knew how you felt about the guy. Maybe it was his way of protecting you from someone you're obviously afraid of."

"I'm _not_ afraid," Starsky lied contemptuously. Ignoring Huggy's eye roll, he gripped his beer glass in-between his hands. As much as he hated to admit it, there was a validity to Huggy's words. And while it didn't ease the sting of knowing official reports would forever document his fear of Simon Marcus and his nightmares, it did make him feel slightly better.

After all, Hutch had a fierce protective streak—especially when it came to him—and occasionally his shielding behavior was borderline absurd. Starsky had lost count of how many times Hutch had grasped him by the arm and thrown him on the ground or pulled him away from some threat on the job. He was always doing stuff like that—putting himself between Starsky and whatever they were up against. Though often annoying, Starsky had never commented on the behavior, because he knew he had his own compulsions when it came to ensuring his partner's safety.

"Hutch has a good heart," Huggy assured. "He may not always execute his behavior or show his love in the right way, but his motivation always comes from the right place."

"I know that, and I don't think he's a terrible person." Planting his elbows, Starsky leaned heavily against the table. "I just wish it wouldn't have gone down like this. Weeks ago we were carefully dancing around the fact that his father died and how he felt about it, and now…" Shaking his head he lifted his hands. "Somehow we're here. Fighting about nightmares and a stupid _fucking_ case we couldn't even solve."

Raising his eyebrows, Huggy leaned over the pool table and paired the cue ball for the break.

"Well, talk it out, and give it another few weeks." Huggy smiled at Starsky's confused expression. "By that time this particular problem will be long gone, and you guys will have found a whole new thing disagree about."

Xx

Sleep didn't come easy, not that Hutch really expected it to. With details of his earlier torturous conversations with both Marcus and Starsky in the forefront of his mind, he stared at the darkness of the bedroom ceiling, willing himself to fall asleep.

It didn't work, and Marcus's earlier words came rushing back as soon and he closed his eyes. _I will have what is needed to give fate what she wants. And you will bring Starsky to me._

Eyes snapping open, Hutch rolled onto his side.

Never.

Sleepwalking or not, he never would have bound himself to such a ludicrous promise, nor would he bring Starsky to Marcus, ever.

Starsky.

His partner's name elicited a wave of nervous guilt, and Hutch shifted his gaze to the alarm clock on the night stand. The red glowing numbers seemed to mock him as he mournfully noted only five minutes had passed since the last time he'd checked. It was late, well past midnight, and his disgruntled partner had yet to come home. While Hutch was worried, a part of him was relieved. He couldn't bring Starsky to Marcus if he didn't know where he was.

Still, the apprehension of not knowing Starsky's whereabouts lingered in his mind. And Marcus's wishes momentarily forgotten, Hutch found himself captivated by the laundry list of other dangers which could have prevented Starsky from returning home.

Car accident, mugging, shootings, to name a few, but rubbing his hands across his face Hutch dismissed the worrisome prospects. The odds of anything like that happening to Starsky seemed impossible. His partner wasn't some green college kid, he was cop pushing middle-age. He was smart, strong, and perfectly capable of defending himself and most anyone around him.

With a slight smile dancing on his lips, Hutch rolled over and closed his eyes. Starsky was fine. He would be fine, and so would they.

 _"Unless_ ," a dark voice whispered in the back of his mind, " _you fall asleep and do something else you won't remember."_

Eyes snapping open, Hutch sat up abruptly, and letting out a startled groan, Lucky peered up at him from the floor. But breathing heavily, Hutch ignored the dog's inquisitive gaze.

He wouldn't do it.

 _"But you will,"_ the pleased voice whispered again. " _Eventually you will sleep and Starsky will belong to me."_

Lucky yawned as Hutch jumped from the bed, striding purposefully to rummage through his jacket hanging in the bedroom closet. Pulling a pair of handcuffs from the pocket, Hutch held them tightly in both of his hands. He was done with Simon Marcus and his talk of fate and dreams. Finished lying to his partner and feeding the terrible tension that had settled between them. Tonight, he would stay in bed where he belonged.

Slapping the keys on the top of the dresser, Hutch made his way to the bed at the other end of the room. Pulling back the mattress slightly he exposed the small rectangle bar connecting the backing of the headboard to the bed frame. Exhaling a nervous breath, he snapped one side of the cuffs to the bar, then laying on his side, he extended his arm and secured the other side to his wrist.

It was a slightly awkward position, and it didn't leave much room for movement. Shifting, Hutch cringed as he felt a small cramp settle underneath his shoulder blade, but breathing deeply he ignored his discomfort and forced himself to close his eyes and relax.

It was fine. Everything was going to be just fine.

Xx

Dozing restlessly, Hutch absently noted the front door of the house opening abruptly. Lucky's tags jingled on his collar as he looked inquisitively at the sudden light peeking through crack in the bedroom door. But pulling slightly at the cuff digging into his wrist, Hutch ignored the light and the sound, burrowed his head into his pillow, and embraced the elusive darkness of sleep.

The light didn't remain on for long, nor did Lucky's interest last. Determining the presence was safe and familiar the Dalmatian rested his head on the floor and watched the doorway with interest as soft footsteps pattered toward the bedroom.

"What the hell?" Starsky chuckled, and Hutch groaned as the harsh beam of Starsky's flashlight app shined on his face. Squeezing his eyes closed tightly, he smiled slightly Starsky's soft muffled laughter filled the room.

"I can't believe you would do this, Babe," Starsky whispered.

The light of the flashlight didn't waiver, and Hutch felt the mattress dip as Starsky settled beside him. His partner's familiar presence was comforting, and it wasn't long before he felt Starsky's teasing fingers caressed up and down his arm and his lips were gathered in a soft kiss.

Starsky tasted like beer, cigarettes and hint of something else slightly dubious. Eyes still shut, Hutch fought the urge to pull back and question his partner on everything he'd done that evening. But as the kiss deepened as Starsky's hands cupped the sides of his face, and Hutch pushed the thought from his mind. What happened tonight no longer mattered because tomorrow they would began again.

"I love you," Starsky rumbled lowly into his ear. "Please, _please_ just remember that. Hang on to it and _remember_."

It wasn't until the beam of the flashlight intensified that Hutch finally opened his eyes.

"Sir…Sir?"

Blinking rapidly, Hutch squinted, raising his hand protectively to block the abrasive beam of filtering from the flashlight directed toward his face.

The comfort of the bedroom was gone. Confused, he stood, pajama bottom clad, barefoot in the middle of a street in a neighborhood he didn't recognize. The sky was hidden by the darkness of night, and Hutch shivered against the cool breeze nipping at his skin. The sound of a police scanner filled the night air, filtering through the open door of a squad car, and the active blue and red lights atop the car reflected off the silver glint of the handcuffs hanging limply from his extended hand. The side he had secured to the headboard was hanging open, swaying loosely in the wind. Staring helplessly at the shiny medal, Hutch frantically tried to recall how he had ended up there and who had unlocked the handcuffs, freeing him from the confines of the bed.

Nothing.

He remembered nothing.

"Sir?" the officer repeated firmly. "Can you hear me?"

"Yes," Hutch croaked, snapping his head toward the voice. The cuffs swayed haphazardly as he moved his hand, blocking his eyes from the sting of the flashlight. "Can you lower that please?"

The officer assessed him warily for a moment before complying, lowering the flashlight and the gun Hutch hadn't comprehended he was holding. "What's your name?" he asked, though he looked as though he already knew the answer.

"Uh... Hutch—Sergeant Detective Ken Hutchinson."

"Detective, huh? I don't suppose you have any documentation on you to verify that."

"I don't think so," Hutch whispered. "But you can run my badge number if you want. That'll give you a picture to verify my identity."

Taking a step forward, the officer squinted, shaking his head dismissively. "I thought I recognized you. You work under Captain Dobey, don't you? Zebra Division?"

Hutch nodded numbly.

"You been drinking tonight, detective?"

"No."

"Are you under the influence of any drugs?"

"No," Hutch said, bristling under the accusation he quickly reminded himself to remain calm. He knew there were few reasonable explanations for being found half naked wandering through a quiet neighborhood. Angry belligerence would serve no purpose but to prevent him from going home.

Home? Did Starsky ever come home?

"No booze or drugs, huh?" the officer snorted, eyeing him skeptically. "What's the deal with the cuffs, detective?"

"Uh..."Hutch rubbed his fingers over the medal covering his wrist. He didn't have a clue how he had escaped the confines of his bedroom, how the hell was he supposed to explain it to someone else?

"Detective?" the officer prompted.

Held in place by the officer's penetrating gaze, Hutch knew couldn't avoid the question—he needed to provide a palatable explanation for his late night wandering—and the last thing he needed was to have the officer haul him downtown, something which would certainly involve Dobey. And the thought of explaining the sleepwalking and handcuffs to his superior was not a good one. It promised to be awkward and terribly time consuming, and with his worry for Starsky growing Hutch didn't want to do anything besides go home.

Please let Starsky be safe at home.

"I've been having trouble with sleepwalking," he admitted finally. "Cuffed myself to the bed thinking I would stay put," shrugging he forced a small smile, "I guess I didn't."

"How'd you get out?"

"Uh... I'm not quite sure about that part."

Pursing his lips, the officer stared mutely, and Hutch recognized the guarded look in his eyes; the small glint of doubt that advised Hutch he was weighing his options. Take him in or let him go. And not recalling how he ended up here or why, Hutch held on the small hope that he hadn't actually done anything wrong.

"Okay," the officer sighed, tiredly pinching at his nose. "I'm pretty sure there's something you're not telling me, but since the only thing you've done is stumble around someplace you don't belong, I'm gonna let it slide. God, knows I don't want to deal with the shit that would come my way if I brought you in. Come on." He nodded at the squad car. "I'll give you a ride home."

Following the officer, Hutch felt the knot in his stomach slightly loosen, but the mild relief was short lived. Upon seeing his reflection in the car's window his heart dropped. His face and neck were sporadically freckled with a dried substance he readily recognized. The color was achingly familiar and exhaling sharply, he took a step back. Shaking his head, he clenched his fists; his hands were sore, his skin felt afire as it pulled in protest against a foreign layer of dryness. Lifting his hands to eye level, he was horrified to find the length between his fingertips and elbows stained with the same dark dried substance which speckled his face.

"Are you okay?" The officer asked, eyeing him oddly.

"Do you see that?" Hutch whispered, a note of terror in his tone as he lifted his arms higher in the air. "Can't you see what's on my hands?"

What had he done? What had Marcus made him do?

"Yeah." The officer frowned, shifting nervously. "Handcuffs. Detective, we just talked about this."

"No." Shaking his head rapidly, Hutch took another step away from the vehicle. " _No. No. No_."

This wasn't happening. He had tried so hard to prevent this.

"Detective, I don't know what kind of drugs you're on, but if you don't calm down and get into the car, I'm gonna have to take you in, and I already told you I don't want to do that. Just let me take you home. We can forget I ever found you, and you can sleep off whatever you got running through you."

But Hutch was too panicked to hear the officer's firm plea. Gasping for breath, he bent over and clutching his arms around his naked stomach he lost the little control he had left.

Blood.

His hands were covered in someone else's blood.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Current Day:**

"I've decided to go home."

Standing in the doorway Starsky averted his gaze to the living room floor as his soft words hung in the air.

Comfortable in his oversized recliner, Al held the TV remote suspended in the air as his mouth fell open in shock. Sitting cross legged sectional, Rosie looked up from the papers she was grading. Reading glasses set low on her nose, she chewed absently at the end of her red pen, assessing Starsky carefully.

"I mean," Starsky continued, uneasiness settling into his chest. Why did they have to look at him as though his declaration had come out of nowhere? They had encouraged him to speak to Hutch, and his return home was something they had wanted. "Not _home_ , home. A new home," he added, his discomfort with their silence unbearable.

"Well, that's great news, Sweetheart" Rosie said softly. "But I am a little surprised you decided to do this so soon. You've only just begun speaking to him again; are you sure you wouldn't rather—"

" _Rose_ ," Al warned, peering at her out of the corner of his eyes. "I'm sure this is decision David didn't make lightly." Crossing his legs, he sipped at his beer. "Besides, he knows he can always come back home if he needs to."

Home. Starsky couldn't help snorting at the word. After everything that had happened it was hard to imagine he still had such a thing.

Though Al and Rosie's house had been a safe place for him to stay after the hospital, not once had he considered it home. The idea of home was an obscure idea—a fleeting notion which had expired shortly after his father's death, when he was forced to watch his mother struggle and his family structure dissolve. But when they took him in, Al and Rosie had tried to give him some sort of normalcy, to make their home into his.

And through adolescence Starsky had tried hard to fit in. To accept his Aunt and Uncle's love, bury his deep-rooted detachment, and silence the tiny voice in his head always whispering he didn't quite belong. Not that his effort to ignore the feelings worked—it would never quite work—and when he found he couldn't escape the feelings he hid them instead. Concealing them under exuberance and a happy-go-lucky exterior that was easily accepted by others but never by himself. He never could believe his own lies, or ignore what he struggled to hide.

He was a displaced outsider. A misunderstood nomad waylaid by circumstance and placed under the care of relatives, who opened their home and hearts and struggled to give him a place in the world—to make him feel at home not only under their roof but also with himself. Something about his surroundings was always missing and it was much too empty to be considered home, and though Starsky loved his Aunt and Uncle dearly, it wasn't until his late twenties that he really understood the place he had been searching for his whole life.

His home, wasn't a building, a place to keep his things, or something he mortgaged or payed rent for. Starsky's home was a person; his home was Hutch.

Tall, blond, and genuine Hutch had provided Starsky more comfort and security than any four walls ever could. Endlessly protective, his love was fierce and true, and Starsky had been safe with the knowledge that Hutch would never do anything to hurt him.

But Simon Marcus had changed everything. Covertly stealing Hutch away, Marcus had somehow influenced him to do the unspeakable. Fracturing Starsky's home and shattering the certain trust they once shared. And now, Starsky was adrift once more. Seeking respite somewhere he knew he didn't belong and struggling to overcome the pain of what had happened and the crippling uncertainty of what was to come.

While he longed to hold on to hope that he and Hutch could repair the damage that had been done, a part of him was certain they never could because, deep down, he knew: he was never going to be able to trust Hutch again.

"You know that, right Kiddo?" Al prompted. "You'll always have a place with us whenever you need it."

"I know," Starsky whispered, though he couldn't quite convince himself to believe the words. He was silently grateful when both Rosie and Al kindly chose to ignore the thickness of his voice and the tears sparkling in his eyes.

Xx

"Man, I know I saw the pictures on the online listing, but I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't have seen it with my own eyes. This place is…" shaking his head, Huggy's sentence remained unfinished as he realized Hutch wasn't listening to anything he was saying.

Holding his iPhone in his extended hand, Hutch grinned wildly, scurrying from the empty living room to inspect the nearby bedroom alcove. Taking pictures along the way, his phone made a series of soft chimes as he texted one picture after another to an unsuspecting recipient.

Starsky probably, Huggy mused. He rolled his eyes, but a small grateful smile crept across his face. The knowledge that Starsky and Hutch were speaking again was too good not to appreciate.

While things between the two weren't exactly the same as they once were, they were a vast difference from where they had been. And in the two weeks that had passed since first reconciling, Starsky had slowly began allowing Hutch to increase contact. Contact which consisted of calls and text messages mostly, Huggy gathered, although they had spent a handful of evenings in each other's company. Talking walks together, watching movies, and hanging out, it was as if they were dating, Huggy noted, the way they were bending over backwards not to touch each other—although Huggy suspected that had more to do with Starsky's lingering uneasiness than anything else.

If the circumstances had been different it would have been cute; to see the two of them tiptoeing around each other with careful precision, and Hutch conducing himself in such an incredibly careful manner—it was as though he was terrified to say or do something which could be perceived incorrectly. But the behavior wasn't cute because they weren't dating, and Hutch's purposeful gentleness and Starsky's nervous apprehension had little to do with the excitement of new love and everything to do with the deep, persistent pain of fresh wounds.

" _Incredible_ ," Hutch said, emerging from the scant privacy of the alcove. "This place is incredible."

"It's something."

Taking a step back, Huggy leaned against the kitchen counter. Twirling the keyring on his finger, he gripped the key to the deadbolt door tightly in his palm. When he had volunteered his expertise as a licensed realtor on the sly, being dragged to a place like this was not what he had envisioned, and he was certain the apartment was not nearly as incredible as Hutch wanted to believe.

In fact, when Hutch had called at the crack of dawn, pulling him out of bed and away from the company of a particularly exquisite woman, to look at a property that seemed more fitting as backdrop of 70's TV show, Huggy had thought Hutch was joking. He had _hoped_ he was joking. A hope he had firmly held on to when first arriving to the rickety building lining a quiet street in Venice, and a hope that had been quickly dashed when Huggy noted the excitement shining in Hutch's eyes.

Taking residence in the space atop an old boarded up restaurant, the apartment had sat vacant for years. Decrepit and dust filled, the interior was a time capsule. Wood paneling was everywhere, bathroom, bedroom, kitchen, living area, not a room had been left untouched. The bathroom was in shambles, with its worn sink and crumbling bathtub. The kitchen was a disaster; the open cabinets looked like homemade bookshelves and the lack of counter space was alarming—though that was universal problem affecting the whole apartment, as the floor plan was impossibly small. With no modern day appliances or in-unit laundry, Huggy figured all the apartment was really missing to pass for a 70's pad was a little macramé, a turn table, and wicker furniture. It was nauseating to say the least, and nothing more than a time intensive, frustration inducing money pit—an assessment Huggy was positive Starsky would agree with.

"Come on, man, let's get out of here," Huggy said. "Let me show you something a little more updated. A little more your style."

"But I love this."

"Well, Starsky is gonna hate it. It's old and dirty, and you know how much he likes to keep stuff clean. How particular he is. Besides, it's too small. I know he agreed to work things out, but I think you really ought to find something with two bedrooms—something that will allow him have some space away if things get to be too much."

"The apartment across the hall is for sale too." Hutch smiled, sticking his phone in the front pocket of his jeans as he moved to the kitchen. "What if I bought both, did a little renovation?" His eyes sparkled with enthusiasm as he moved his hands excitedly around, punctuating his words with unconcealed excitement. "We could move the main door to the top of the stairs, knock out the doors to the apartments and make the landing into a hallway. That would give us two bedrooms, two bathrooms—"

"And two kitchens." Huggy rolled his eyes. "You're gonna need appliances too. And knowing you, hookups for in unit-laundry. Where are you gonna put that Mike Holmes?"

"There's a maintenance closet in the hallway, between the apartments. We could put them there." We'll tear out one of the kitchens out anyway, we could always knock up a closet or a room for the washer and dryer there."

Crossing his arms, Huggy sighed skeptically. "Knocking down doors, putting new ones up, the cost to put in new appliances, not to mention the money you're gonna have to drop just to make this place livable, this sounds like an expensive endeavor." He eyed Hutch dubiously. "I know you're selling that beach house for a mint, but where are you gonna get money to renovate this place? You're not working, and I _thought_ you already had a project you were dumping money into? A certain covert restoration job."

"Don't worry about the finances, Hug." Hutch grinned. "It's not an issue. Besides, just think about it."

"Oh, _I am_."

"This could be _our_ place," Hutch said, ignoring Huggy's displeasure. "His and mine, and we could make it how we wanted it." He peered excitedly out of the kitchen window at the cement block walls of the enclosed greenhouse. "There's even a patio area for the dog. It's perfect."

"I still think you ought to run it by him. Maybe bring him by before we put in an offer."

And as if on cue, Hutch's phone chimed loudly, alerting them both to a new text message. Pulling it out of his pocket, Hutch's smile grew as he read the words on the shining brightly on the screen. "We don't have to," he said. "Starsky's fine with this place."

"He _actually_ said that?" Huggy frowned. Leaning over he tried to peer at the iPhone screen, but Hutch pulled it from view. "Man, are you sure you read that right? That does _not_ sound like him at all."

Turning away from Huggy, Hutch ignored his friend's words, as well as the uneasiness the rest of Starsky's out of character response elicited.

Xx

 **Months Prior:**

Sitting in the interrogation room, Hutch planted his elbows on the table and pressed his forehead to his palms. Absently carding the tips of his fingers through his hair, he closed his eyes and forced himself to think of anything but the blood still marking his hands.

The uniform officer, Stephens, hadn't seen it, neither had the countless other people they passed as Stephens had covertly led Hutch to the hallway lined with interrogation rooms. He hadn't been booked—which was the least of his worries now—but frightened by Hutch's dubious behavior and meltdown, Stephens had apprehended him and brought him downtown to be collected by Dobey.

Hutch sighed heartily. How the hell was he supposed to explain any of this to his superior? And how was he even supposed to try?

Dropping his hands heavily on the table, his brow furrowed as he bit his lip nervously. He needed to get out of this room, find a phone, and call his partner. He needed to talk to Starsky, to hear his voice and know that everything was okay.

"Starsky," Hutch thought desperately. "Please, be okay. You're okay. You're okay…"And even though he silently repeated the words—in torturous tandem of the beat of his heart—he couldn't quite convince himself to believe them.

The door opened abruptly, and breathlessly Hutch focused his attention the large man entering the room.

Entering the room abruptly, Dobey's face was set in a scowl as he held Hutch's handcuffs tightly in his hand and assessed him with tired eyes. Sitting heavily in the chair opposite Hutch, Dobey sighed heartily and placed the handcuffs in the middle of the table. The heavy medal grinded against the table as he silently pushed them to their resting place and Hutch cringed at cutting abrasive sound—something which told him more about Dobey's current mood than words ever could.

"Twelve loud, boisterous first grade girls," Dobey said, his voice low and disgruntled. "All extraordinarily adverse to sleep. That's what I left Edith to contend with on her own, so I could come down here in the middle of the night to hear your story about handcuffs and why the hell Officer Stephens found you wandering half-naked around a neighborhood where you clearly didn't belong."

Eyes finding the short sleeve of the gray Bay City PD gym shirt Stephens had given him to wear, Hutch could only shrug. He didn't know where to start or how much Dobey already knew, and he was hesitant to speak at all. He didn't want to volunteer more information than Starsky had, for fear that this was just some terrible dream—some horrible nightmare fueled by sleep deprivation and grief—and for a moment, he was certain that's what it was.

It wasn't real. Not the blood marking his hands or the dread filling his heart. There was no way it could be real.

And held captive under Dobey's careful eyes, Hutch found his brain crafting a new version of what had happened that evening. A better version—a safer, truer version than the one his dread would have him believe.

Starsky was safe at home. Angry over their argument, his partner had decided to sleep in their spare bedroom, where he still remained completely unaware that Hutch had handcuffed himself to the bed or that he had even left the house. And after his conversation with Dobey, Hutch would return home, to properly apologize and confide in Starsky the powerful secret Marcus knew. And someday, a long time from now, this would all become a funny story—a ridiculous tale to trade with friends over drinks.

"I tried to call your partner," Dobey said gruffly, "but he didn't answer. In fact, the call went straight to voicemail. Of course, given the conversation we had this afternoon, I can't say I blame him..."

Closing his eyes, Hutch felt the words like a punch to the gut. Angry or not, Starsky would never chose to turn his phone off. The words shattered the delicate picture he was constructing in his mind, and he knew what the dread building in his chest had been intent on ensuring he understood. It wasn't okay, and neither was Starsky, but there was little he could do about it now.

"... Hutch?" Dobey asked, pulling Hutch's attention back to the room. "Did you hear me? I said this is serious. I've watched you do some strange things in the months since you lost your father. I've seen your anger, your adamant determination to pretend you're fine, and I've stayed quiet about it until now, but you cannot carry on like this. You are obviously _not_ fine."

"There's nothing wrong," Hutch insisted, his words thick as his eyes remained closed, though he wondered why he felt the need to deny what Dobey already knew. What was the point of hiding any of it now?

"Sure," Dobey scoffed sadly, rubbing his hands over his tired face. "This isn't a joke, you know. Being picked up like that isn't something to be taken lightly. You're lucky Stephens brought you here and called me—he didn't have to do that. This could have ended up on the record and then you would have found yourself answering to someone more powerful than me."

Inhaling thickly, Hutch opened his haunted eyes, and focusing his gaze on his bloodstained fingertips he fought the urge to close them again. Marcus had been right, and he had done something terrible—the invisible blood marking his hands was proof of that—and now he was tormented by what he didn't know, the details of whatever horrifying scene awaited him at home.

"Do you need help?" Dobey asked seriously.

Shaking his head, Hutch almost cried at the question. Did he need help? Of course he did, but not the kind his superior was offering. Not psych evaluations, therapy or the stigma attached to being a cop who slowly unraveled after losing a loved one. The help he needed Dobey couldn't possibly provide—no one could.

"Hutch?"

"No."

"Then tell me what's going on with you. What happened tonight?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know or you don't want to talk about it?"

"I…" Hutch hesitated. Shaking his head, he settled his hands on his thighs, hiding his blood stained skin under the table. "I don't know. Captain," he whispered thickly. "But I—I just want— _need_ —to go home."

Dobey considered him quietly, and Hutch had to stop himself fidgeting as his superior's dark eyes glistened with unexpressed worry.

" _Please_ ," Hutch said, a note of panic in his tone.

Crossing his arms and leaning back in his seat Dobey didn't answer. There was foreign uncertainty in Dobey's eyes. Heart pounding, Hutch realized the question sparkling in his superior's doubtful gaze. It was the same question he had seen in Officer Stephen's eyes hours ago: should he let him go home or hold him accountable? Although accountable for what, Hutch wasn't quite sure. But his throat felt dry as he found himself convinced Dobey was aware of more than he ever wanted him to know.

"What exactly did Starsky tell you?"

"Enough."

"What does that mean?"

"It means, that he didn't have to say anything. The fact that he came to me to at all was enough. You are _not_ fine, and you haven't been for a quite a while."

The words should have shook Hutch, but they didn't. He should have been offended or angry over Dobey's candor, but he wasn't. Being upset about his wavering control was pointless and any talk of work-related discipline brought on by his actions was worthless. All that mattered now was what had happened, and what was awaiting him at home.

"What are you gonna do?" Hutch asked.

"Nothing I haven't already done," Dobey said. "You're on administrative leave and I don't want to see you back until you've gotten some sleep and regained some control over yourself."

Xx

Darkness surrounded him.

The floorboards were hard and cold beneath his back as he slowly came to. Groaning softly, Starsky opened his eyes. His head was pounding relentlessly, his stomach churned with nausea as he blinked blearily at the ceiling he readily recognized as the place of his dreams.

The empty second story bedroom was cool and damp. Lit only by moonlight peeking through the bedroom window, the room looked drastically less foreboding now than it had in his dreams, with its peeling paint and crumbling walls. But even so, Starsky still found himself eager to leave.

" _Or wake up_ ," a soft voice whispered in the back of his head. " _Are you sure this isn't another dream?_ "

Overcome by nausea, he closed his eyes. No, he wasn't sure this wasn't a dream. Then again nobody had ever whispered to him in his dreams; the only sound he had ever heard was relentless chanting—something which was hauntingly absent now.

The room was eerily quiet. Too quiet. Pressing his hands to the sides of his head, he groaned, startled by the thick slickness clinging to his curls, marking his hairline, and seeping down the sides of his face. Grimacing, he pulled his hands back and struggled to comprehend what had happened.

Nothing.

He remembered nothing.

His last memory was of Huggy's, playing pool, drinking, and, eventually, laughing off the tension he had felt over Hutch's dishonestly. Though, the beer had helped with that as did the eventual shots of hard alcohol—once the night had reached a tipping point of intoxication, dissolving it into a series of horrible decisions.

Groaning, Starsky closed his eyes, struggling to combat the powerful pressure he felt behind his skull. But the pain wouldn't be calmed, and he felt overcome by unbearable nausea. Dropping his arms, he pulled his legs to his chest, rested his forehead on his knees, and willed himself not to throw up. He was alarmed at the pain reverberating in his head. He must have drank more at Huggy's than he had originally thought—or intended to. And if this was a dream, he decided it probably the worst one he ever had. Dreaming he was stuck in the dimly lit farmhouse as his very real hangover induced headache slowly worked its way into his scattered subconscious. Still, the blood was odd though, he mused, looking at his freshly stained fingertips. He had never bled in his dreams before.

Can you bleed in dreams?

He considered the question absently, rubbing his thumb and index finger against one another. The blood was smooth and warm, glistening under the moonlight it looked pretend. It was much too thick and dark to be real, and Starsky decided he was in a dream.

Not another nightmare but a dream. The blood dripping down the side of his face was imagined and there was no way he could be in Marcus's farmhouse, because the room, though dark, wasn't scary at all, and he wasn't nearly frightened enough for any of this to be real. In fact, despite the pain in his head and the blood spilling from hairline, he felt oddly calm—peaceful almost.

No, he was much too composed for this to be anything but a dream.

If this were real, he would be angry—no furious—Starsky smiled. Though that wouldn't really be how he was feeling, because truthfully, if this were real he would be horrified, petrified even, and that would make him incredibly angry. Livid, he would be stomping around, near belligerently, his anger building with each moment which passed before eventually escaping the house. And he didn't feel any of those things. Not fear, not anger, just peace.

But could you bleed in a dream?

The bothersome question still remained, and sitting on the floor, Starsky calmly considered the idea before deciding that you probably could. It probably didn't mean anything good he reasoned, likening it to some horrendous sign of things to come; a subconscious warning as dubious as dreaming of free falling and hitting the ground before you wake up. He recalled his grandmother once telling him that when you hit the ground before waking that meant your death was near.

What did it mean if you bled in your dreams?

Starsky pulled himself slowly from the floor. His legs were shaky, his balance impeded by the throbbing in his head, and extending his arms he fought to remain upright and balanced.

His head ached and his stomach churned, and if this really was dream then he found himself all too eager to lay back down again. In fact, he could probably do just that. Lay on the ground, stare at the darkness of the ceiling and wait. For the either this dream to come to an end or for Hutch to abruptly wake him as he restlessly jostled the bed.

"I want to wake up now," Starsky said aloud.

"And what would you do then?" a soft voice asked from behind.

Turning in place, Starsky found Simon Marcus watching him from the doorway.

"You're new," Starsky said, giving little thought to the words.

"Am I?"

"I've never dreamed of you before."

"You have not," Marcus agreed, his eyes sparkling with pleasure. "But is this really a dream?"

"Don't ask me that," Starsky said insistently. "I've already decided it is."

"What makes you so certain?"

Opening his mouth, Starsky struggled to reply. The certainty he had felt so strongly a moment ago had vanished, as had his calmness. Slowly, he felt his ease turn to doubt. Trickling into his chest it filled him with an icy fear.

"You are not certain," Marcus continued knowingly. "You will act as though you are, but you are not."

"I'm sure," Starsky growled. And though he said the words he knew they were a lie. He could feel it now, his fear bordering on terror, adding to the fury building deep in his chest.

If this wasn't a dream how did he get here?

"How _did_ you get here?" Marcus chuckled. Stepping into the room, he assessed Starsky calmly. His eyes sparkled with glee and his mouth was frozen in an inquisitive smile. "Did someone bring you here or did you come on your own?"

"This _is_ a dream," Starsky insisted. "I don't know how it happened."

"Or why."

Marcus's grin was chilling, and it reawakened Starsky's doubt. Narrowing his eyes, he clenched his fists tightly at his sides. Though Marcus didn't move, Starsky's body was too anxiety ridden to stay in place. He took a step back, then another and another. Unconsciously, he retreated until his back hit the far wall of the room.

If this was a dream how could Marcus be there? Asking him the same questions which were torturing his thoughts. If this were another dream then where was the chanting? The eerie circle of blond men where he would eventually find Hutch. And if this were a dream how could he be _bleeding_?

"Can you bleed in dreams?" Starsky asked the question unwillingly, his low voice shook with anger as the words spilled from his mouth.

"You cannot," Marcus said simply. "But if awake, there is no limit to the ways a man can bleed. I will share a few with you in time, and you will bleed so much before we are through."

"No," Starsky whispered, struggling to push himself further against the wall. Marcus was wrong. He was sleeping and he intended to wake up. "This is a dream," he added, struggling to keep his voice from shaking. "And I want to wake up. I _need_ to wake up right now."

"You are not dreaming." Marcus said calmly. "Do you not see the blood dripping down your face? You are awake. You are more awake than you have _ever_ been."

"No." Starsky violently shook his head. "No. No. N—" Gasping suddenly, he choked on the word. And though he was still standing across the room, Starsky was sure he felt Marcus's palm push through his chest and clench his heart tightly, squeezing until the aching organ felt as though it may explode.

"You will scream and no one with hear you," Marcus whispered. His smile grew as Starsky groaned painfully. "You will die and no one will find you."

Wheezing, Starsky felt his chest tighten further and he struggled for each labored breath. Marcus's grip was impossibly tight, and the lack of oxygen was making him lightheaded. A dizzying array of black dots danced in his vision, intermixing with thick droplets of blood. Spilling from his hairline they dropped off his downturned face, freckling and staining the dirty floorboards.

It was then he knew—with heartbreaking certainty, he knew—the pain he felt now was just the beginning, because Marcus was right, and this was the furthest thing from a dream.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Current Day:**

"Well… what do you think?" Hutch asked softly, his lips forming a nervous line as he watched his partner look around their newly renovated home.

It was the first time Starsky had set a foot in the apartment and he had yet to say a word—not that Hutch expected him to be overly excited about it, but he had hoped for something more than pursed lips and an intense stare when he had thought about finally presenting was now being referred to as Venice Place to Starsky.

 _Venice Place_. Hutch snorted at the nickname Huggy had dubbed the complex—due to the faded lettering on the side of the side of the building—and it had stuck. While he didn't particularly care to give the home a title, he remained quiet. With all the assistance Huggy had provided while negotiating the purchase of the building and renovating it, Hutch figured he could call it whatever he wanted.

Hours after they had closed on the property, Huggy had called a handful of low-key contractors and plumbers—anyone who ever owed him a favor— prompting them into a whirlwind of activity and property was renovated in record time. But much to Hutch's disappointment, Starsky had remained disinterested and distant throughout the renovation, and with the exception of two explicit requests he hadn't offered any input.

Hutch had done his best picking fixtures and colors which would suit both of them. With new hardwood flooring, exposed ceiling work, and scattered brickwork throughout, Venice Place now felt much more masculine and industrial than Brady Bunch—another declaration Huggy had made—but more importantly it felt calm and secure. It felt like home. Hutch only hoped the new space would invoke the same positive feelings in Starsky. That he would not only love the place but that he would feel safe behind its sturdy walls and comforted by the lack of memories the space contained.

But watching Starsky move around the empty apartment, his face set in an unreadable expression, Hutch found himself increasingly nervous, and he began second guessing every decision he had made.

"I think the place looks pretty good considering it only took two weeks," Hutch added, his nervousness intensifying.

Starsky, either immune or ignoring Hutch's discomfort, stuck his hands deep into his cargo short pockets. His dull eyes moved disinterestedly from one area to the next as the soles of his tennis shoes padded lightly on the new hardwood flooring, echoing through the empty living area. Dark curtains covered the bookshelf lined windows, and a built in entertainment unit had been added on the wall opposite the open kitchen. Starsky almost smiled as he noted that the large space reserved for a flat screen TV, absently wondering if a larger TV was part of Hutch's plan for their new place—another loosely-veiled apology for what had happened.

"The kitchen is all new," Hutch said softy. His lips formed a hint of a smile as his partner turned his attention to the neighboring area.

The old kitchen fixtures had been removed, and main wall had been lined with brick, offsetting the dark counter tops, pine colored cabinets, and stainless steel appliances. Starsky nodded as walked between the new cabinets and the long timber kitchen island that doubled dining space. But coming upon what used to be the bedroom alcove, he frowned.

"We had to open it up," Hutch said regretfully. He cringed as Starsky's face contorted with nervousness and he began nervously tapping his fingertips on the island. "I'm sorry, babe, I know you wanted the apartments to stay separate, but with the patio access through the alcove there wasn't much else they— _I_ —could do."

Inhaling deeply, Starsky looked disappointedly at the small area. The set of large french doors had been added to the wall, allowing a clear view into empty brick enclosed greenhouse, but the walls of the alcove had been removed, leaving the small area much more reminiscent of a den or a nook and a ludicrous location for a bed.

"So," he said, his voice low as he pointed toward the hallway connecting the once neighboring apartments. "The bedrooms are both over there?"

Hutch nodded. As Huggy had warned when first looking at the apartment, Starsky hadn't only requested separate bedroom but he had wanted them on opposite ends of the apartment. His fear over Hutch's immediate presence still lingering, he didn't feel comfortable sleeping in the same room.

"There's three bedrooms," Hutch said, hoping the knowledge would sooth some of Starsky discomfort. "And two bathrooms. The master has one and then one between the other two."

But knowledge of bathrooms and bedrooms did little to calm Starsky's anxiety. He felt his heartbeat quicken as the knowledge of Hutch's proximity began to sink in. Although, he thought regretfully, he really should have suspected his request had been ignored. Upon entering the building, he had noted that the both apartment doors at the stop of the stairs had been removed—something he had explicitly requested stay.

"I'm sorry, Starsk," Hutch said. "I really tried. It just didn't work out. But you can take the master and I'll take the one furthest from that. This can still work. I'll do whatever you need me to so you can feel safe here, okay?"

Chewing his bottom lip, Starsky didn't answer. And for a moment Hutch thought he saw tears filling his partner's eyes but Starsky moved toward the french doors and escaped to the privacy of the greenhouse before he could be sure.

Leaning over the kitchen island, Hutch rested his head in his palms. This was going to be much more difficult than he could have imagined. How were they supposed to work things out if they couldn't even stay in the same room? Though Starsky had agreed to work through things, his behavior since they moved in indicated the opposite. It wasn't as though Hutch had expected them to pick things up right where they left off—to kiss and make up then forget Simon Marcus had ever happened— but he hadn't anticipated the level of Starsky's anxiety. And he was only beginning to understand what Uncle Al had advised him of nearly two months ago.

Starsky was different. Quiet, skittish, afraid, and tearful.

Hutch fought a wave of guilt as he considered how prone to tears his partner had become. Anger Hutch could handle but unpredictable tears were a challenge—especially when they came from Starsky.

Fierce, strong unbreakable Starsky, who under normal circumstances did everything he could not to cry or show any deep wounds. Not that had really changed, Hutch mused, Starsky was still pretending as though his presence didn't bother him. But they both knew it did. And there were so many painful reminders of Starsky's lingering fear.

Hutch saw them every time they were alone together. He noticed the glint of fear in Starsky's eyes. Noted the physical distance Starsky was careful to maintain. And Hutch felt the terror that had settled its way into Starsky's soul, chasing away his partner's charisma and erasing his cheerful disposition.

Pulling his head from his hands, Hutch looked across the room and through the windows on the French doors. Noting Starsky's turned back and rigid stance, he groaned sadly. How had they gotten here, and why was it taking so long to recover what Marcus had taken?

Biting his lip, the frustrated thoughts left him. He knew how they had ended up where they had. And how quickly it had become expected behavior for Starsky to escape his presence by seeking respite in an unfamiliar greenhouse, or to insist they sleep on opposite ends of a building separated by two doors that were dead bolted shut. Painfully Hutch realized. Starsky wasn't simply afraid, he was afraid of _him_. A feeling which despite Simon Marcus's death and the weeks that had passed since Starsky had been rescued, had only intensified.

Slamming his fist on the island, Hutch swore under his breath. He still wasn't certain of all the things Simon Marcus had done, but he was certain of one thing: the man was lucky he was already dead.

Pacing the kitchen, Hutch smoothed his hands through his hair and awaited Starsky's delayed return to the apartment. Forcing himself to take deep calming breaths, he pushed the negative thoughts of Marcus and the past away. He couldn't do anything about that now, but this, their new beginning in a new home he could impact. And he would adhere to his precious promise no matter how difficult it was. He would comply with Starsky's wishes, no matter how worrisome, and he would do whatever it took to regain his trust.

Minutes passed before Starsky nervously emerged from the greenhouse. Forcing a wide smile, Hutch watched as he quietly shut the french doors, turning the small medal lock and re-checking it obsessively before finally turning around.

"I think it'll be okay," Starsky said quietly, his eyes focused on some unseen thing on the floor. "I think this'll be good move...for us."

Smile wavering slightly, Hutch could only nod. But a small terrified voice in the back of his head whispered that, new apartment or not, they would never be okay again.

 **Months Prior:**

The ride home was awkward and impossibly long.

Sitting in the passenger seat of Captain Dobey's car, Hutch tried to respond to his superior's bids for small talk but remained too crippled with worry to say a word. He was grateful when Dobey exhaled heavily and finally abandoned the conversation.

He hadn't wanted the ride, Dobey had insisted. And without his car, a wallet, or even a pair of shoes Hutch found himself unable to decline. But leaning his forehead against the window, Hutch regretted the decision. He should have called Huggy or Lucas because though explaining his whereabouts would have been awkward, a ride with either of them would have been infinitely better. They would have allowed him to be silently nervous and he wouldn't have felt as though every move he made was being scrutinized or wordlessly filed away to be used against him at a further date.

Forcing a series of deep breaths, Hutch assured himself things were fine. Starsky was safe at home and he was going to have a hell of a time living down the good-natured ridicule that would come from Starsky after Dobey delivered him to their home. But closing his eyes, Hutch still struggled to believe things were fine. The bloodstains on his fingertips ensured otherwise, as did the horrible feeling settling into his heart.

Something was wrong, he could _feel_ it. Something terrible had happened, and now that he was finally being allowed to return home, Hutch found himself dreading what he would find.

Had he done what Marcus had thought inevitable or something worse?

"Pull your head off the window," Dobey instructed gruffly. "You're going leave a mark."

The warning came too late, and leaning back Hutch noted the oil mark his forehead left on the tinted window. Smoothing the circle away with his shirt sleeve, Hutch heard Dobey's disapproving sigh, and absently he wondered if Dobey would replicate the sound once they both discovered what he'd really done.

Xx

"This is not a dream," Marcus assured. "And you cannot change what fate has deemed necessary."

Rooted in place, Starsky's breath came in sharp gasps as he struggled to look away. His chest ached, clenched by unseen hands. His knees throbbed, painfully protesting under an unbearable weight intent on pushing him to the ground. He wanted to speak but his voice wouldn't comply. He wanted to move, but his body remained motionlessly grounded in place. And as blood continued to drip steadily from the wound on his hairline, clinging to his lashes and burning his eyes before trickling down the side of this face, panic overwhelmed him; he was powerless to do anything but what Marcus wanted.

 _Just as Hutch had been._

As the soft words echoed in his head, Starsky fought a sob and denied them. The voice was wrong. Hutch didn't believe in Marcus or his powers—something that was certain to protect him.

"It is you who are wrong." Smiling, Marcus circled Starsky's still form. "Hutchinson believes. With unshakable certainty, he _believes_. You don't understand but you will soon."

Starsky struggled to ignore dread and fear Marcus's words awoke. Closing his eyes he found himself assaulted with a cluster violent images from his nightmares. The air thick with pain and desperation, and Hutch standing at the head of a circle of blond men, bloody knife in his hand and his eyes shining evilly.

 _You know what he did._ The unseen voice whispered again. _What he will do._

"No." Starsky said, shocked that Marcus would allow him to speak. "I don't want to understand, and you're wrong. He _won't_ do it. Hutch would _never_ do what I dreamed he would."

"You are a brave one," Marcus said, his dark eyes glistening with joy. "I shall enjoy our time together. The things you'll say, the way you will fight against something you cannot change now."

"I'm not afraid of you," Starsky whispered deeply, feigning a courage he didn't feel.

Terror was rushing through him now. A cold excruciating fear clutched his heart as he struggled to move his body—to somehow escape from Marcus's invisible hold. Frozen in place, his eyes darted around darkness of the farmhouse bedroom. The room remained as unsettling it had been in his dreams. An eerie unnatural silence enveloped them as he and Marcus stood illuminated only by the fading light of the moon.

How had he gotten here? How had his dreams suddenly become so real?

"Oh, but you are," Marcus said. "You cannot hide yourself from me. Just like your partner could not hide himself from me."

"What did you _make_ him do?"

"Nothing. I merely presented him opportunities. The choices he made were his own."

Xx

Walking through the front door of the beach house, Hutch was greeted by an eerie silence. Gripping the doorknob tightly, he carefully scanned the living room and the connecting kitchen, looking for anything which seemed even slightly out of place. With the exception of the open sliding glass door, Hutch noted nothing strange, and regretfully he realized that symptomatic of his recent sleepwalking spells, the open backdoor had become a normal as well.

Striding slowly through the silence of house, Hutch's chest felt tight, his heart was heavily with nervousness and dread. Each room looked untouched and as clean and inviting as they always had been. Coming upon their bedroom, he found nothing out of the ordinary. The lights were off, Starsky's pillow was untouched, their sheets and blankets laid haphazardly on the bed, but there was no evidence of a struggle. In fact, there was no evidence of anything at all.

Taking an unconscious step back, Hutch's eyes darted around the room. Everything was how they had left it—how he had remembered it from the night before. The dirty jeans and t-shirt Starsky had discarded before leaving for his night out still lay in front of the closet door, and the key to the handcuffs remained untouched on the top of the dresser.

"Starsky?" Hutch asked, his voice low and calm, betraying the panic that had settled in the pit of his stomach. "Starsky?"

He didn't expect an answer, nor did he receive one. The house remained as quiet and empty as it had when he arrived, and, suddenly, he was certain of what he had known since Officer Stephens found him unconsciously wandering around an unfamiliar neighborhood: Starsky was gone.

Walking slowly to the living room, he heard the blinds on the glass door sway angrily as a gust of brisk morning air blew through the house. The air was refreshing but left the room cold.

"Starsky," Hutch repeated. His voice scratchy and barely audible as his face crumpled under the stress of uncertain tears. " _Please_."

Lifting his hands, he stared at his fingertips. Despite the untouched state of the house, the bloodstains had remained. Bold and accusing, they had made little sense to begin with and even less now.

What had he done? What unforgivable events had unfolded while he was sleeping?

Xx

"You're _lying_! Hutch _never_ would have chosen this," Starsky whispered, a quiet uncertainty to his tone. "He never would have…"

 _Did Hutch bring him here?_ The invisible voice whispered, and Starsky struggled to dismiss the question, but something stopped him. A terrible flash of a memory he couldn't quite deny.

"He did," Marcus assured. "But you chose this path too. Though you do not want to admit it now, in time you will. The time will come and you will see. You will understand why you allowed for this to happen, why you only tried to stop him when you knew it was too late."

Forehead crumpling, Starsky's mouth hung open. How had _he_ chosen this? He couldn't have; he _wouldn't_ have. His memory had to be a lie. Hutch never would have done what Marcus was trying to convince him he had.

"You were aware of Brother Brian's fate," Marcus continued. "I allowed you to dream of it, and you ignored what I was careful to insure you knew."

"No," Starsky whispered. Closing his eyes he fought hard to hold on to the little anger he had left, but it quickly slipped away leaving a his stomach churning with desperate fear and overwhelming grief. "No…I didn't… he didn't… none of this makes any sense."

"I gave you both pieces of the truth. You saw what was done to Brother Brian and through his journal Hutchinson knew why. If you would have worked together rather than against each other you could have avoided what is to come."

"No… that's not true."

"You know it is," Marcus assured. "All the time you spent running away from each other. The space you allowed him to have. You never pushed him to talk of his father, the pain he was feeling after his death. You never questioned his obsession with Brother Brian's case. You allowed him to run away from you."

"I didn't. You don't know anything about that. You don't know anything about us."

"I know _everything_ about you." Marcus grinned knowingly. "Your hopes, your dreams, your strengths, and your flaws. It really is quiet funny…" He paused thoughtfully, tilting his head and crossing his arms. "You did not push Hutchinson to talk about his father because of what you already knew, and he chose not to share it with you because of his fear of you finding out."

Xx

"S-Starsky."

"I don't think he's home," Dobey said/ Leaning against the kitchen counter he crossed his arms, his brows narrowing with concern.

Turning in place, Hutch tried hard to ignore his superior's worried gaze, and clenching his fists at his sides, he felt a rush of grief. Starsky was gone and Dobey thought he was crazy, but there was no way to fix either thing.

"His car wasn't in the driveway," Dobey explained, as though he was certain Hutch didn't understand his reasoning. Eyeing Hutch carefully, he nodded at the open sliding glass door. "Are you going to leave that open?"

"No."

Eyebrows raising at the immediate response, Dobey sighed exasperatedly as Hutch made no effort to close to the door. "You're acting very strange." Moving to the door, he closed it swiftly and closed the blinds. "Are you sure you'll be okay?"

 _No._ "Yes," Hutch whispered.

"Hmmm."

"I'll be fine. Why are you still here? I thought you had a sleepover to supervise."

"A little late for that," Dobey snorted but glancing at his watch his pace contorted with regret. "They'll be fine," he added after a moment. "Are you sure you're going to be okay?"

"Yeah."

"I don't think you should be alone. Do you want me to stay until Starsky comes home?"

"No."

Pursing his lips, Dobey looked thoughtfully around the room, his dark eyes cataloguing the various details of the home. "Keep your doors locked and get some sleep. Things will look better once you do," he said as he strode to the door. Grasping the doorknob, he hesitated and looked thoughtfully around the room. "I thought you had dog; the stray you picked up while working the Stryker case. Where is he?"

Eyes widening, Hutch's heart skipped a beat. How could he have overlooked Lucky? And looking around the living room, the Dalmatian's absence was glaring. Lucky, always eager to greet him when he came home, would normally be located underfoot—following Hutch loyally around the house where ever he went.

"Lucky!" he bellowed, rushing through the house before stumbling out the back door and onto the patio. "Lucky!" he screamed, his eyes scanning the empty backyard. His heart sank and desperation overwhelmed him.

Starsky was missing, but Lucky was gone.

Xx

"Are as similar as you are different," Marcus laughed. "Both outsiders, both hiding from the pain lurking in your pasts. And while you chose to mask yours, to make the best of the horrible loses you have endured. Hutchinson chooses to deny his past altogether. You became a police officer because of your father. A man you loved dearly and lost too soon. He was your stability, your rock, the buffer between you and your mother. Things changed greatly when he was no longer around to sooth her instability. The state once deemed her insane and they were right—"

"What?" Starsky snorted. How could Marcus know these things? How could he stand in front of him casually recounting stories his deepest wounds? "How _dare_ you stand there and talk about things you don't know anything about!"

"And though your mother abandoned you, you still come to her defense," Marcus scoffed. "Loyalty is your greatest flaw, and will be your demise. It is why you allowed Hutchinson to push you away. Why you stood back and watched him struggle. But you wanted _so_ much to be angry with him. To push him into sharing his pain with you; to hear from his mouth what you already knew. And you do know what he's struggled to hide—"

"Stop," Starsky whispered desperately. "Don't tell me… I don't want hear this from you."

Taking a step back Marcus hesitated, seeming perplexed by Starsky's plea. Clasping his hands behind him, he slowly walked to the window, setting his gaze on the sun slowly rising beyond the hills.

Lightheaded Starsky squinted as his vision doubled, presenting him the image of two Marcus's watching the sunrise. The pressure on his shoulders suddenly disappeared, and off balance he spilled to his stomach the cold floor.

"There will be no saving you," Marcus assured, his back still turned. "You know this, and you will die never hearing his truth. I know that was what he wanted but it is surprise to hear you want the same. As I said before, loyalty is your greatest flaw."

Pulling himself from the floor, Starsky clutched his fists, feeling anger rush through him. How dare Marcus say what he had and how dare he manipulate Hutch into doing what he had done. Though his words were spoken with certainty, Marcus knew nothing at all. And he would make Marcus pay for what he had said, and what he had done.

"It is too late for that." Smiling Marcus turned as Starsky advanced on him.

Walking swiftly, Starsky lunged at Marcus but was pushed forcefully to the floor. Landing hard on his back, his head slammed down hardwood sending a sharp pain through the side of his head and down his neck. Blinking painfully, Starsky saw Marcus towering over him, and for a moment he wondered how Marcus had been able to avoid his attack, then as darkness enveloped him, he wondered nothing at all.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Current Day:**

Worn duffle bag slung low on his shoulder, fingertips frozen on the clean white bandage carefully covering the still healing scar on his cheek, Starsky stood in the middle of his childhood bedroom at Rosie and Al's house.

The curtains had long been opened, allowing bright rays of the mid-afternoon sun to filter through the window and settle on the familiar comforts of the small room. Scattered posters covered the walls, advertising the preferred music choices and sports teams of his youth. Sitting next to the bed was the tall mahogany bookcase—a hand-me-down from Uncle Al's father— its shelves packed full, displaying stacks of comic books, boxes of baseball cards, a silver boom box, scattered CD's, and various other items from his tumultuous teen years. All things that Starsky had once treasured long forgotten. Patiently waiting for the day they would be useful again.

After being held by Marcus and reeling from things Hutch had done, seeking respite in the bedroom had felt odd and uncomfortable. It was unsettling to be surrounded by memories of his distant past while struggling to understand what had happened more recently. And time and time again, first through drug induced numbness then in the midst of overwhelming anxiety and panic, Starsky had reassured himself that he hadn't been seeking the comfort of his Aunt and Uncle's home—or company. He had only come here because he had been unable to go home.

But gaze frozen on the head of twin bed pushed against the far wall and the series of framed pictures displayed on the night-table next to it, he found himself hesitant to leave the familiar security and comforting confines of a room he had never wanted.

 _"Your Aunt Rosie and Uncle Al will be waiting for you at the airport,"_ _The social worker had said with a kind smile and guarded eyes. Sitting across the table, she adjusted the contents of the file in front of her._ _"You remember them, right? You've been speaking with them on the phone—"_

 _"Why can't I stay with my little brother?"_ _Starsky asked. Kicking his heels against the medal legs of the plastic backed chair, he tented his small hands on the table._ _"How come he gets to stay and I have to go? You said I wouldn't have to leave him. That you weren't gonna split us up."_

Inhaling sharply, Starsky closed his eyes—shocked by how readily the painful moment emerged from the back of his memory—and he was transported to another time.

 _"We've talked about this, David."_ _Covering his hand with her own, the social worker pursed her lips and shook her head sadly._ _"We've been talking about it for quite a while. Remember? How Nicholas is going to stay with your grandparents, and how you are going to go to California,"_ _she smiled encouragingly,_ _"with sun and the sand. Just think of how great it will be."_

 _"I don't w-wanna,"_ _Starsky protested, his voice catching slightly as he willed himself not to cry. Tears filled his eyes anyway, blurring his vision before spilling down his cheeks_ _. "I don't want to leave my little brother. I promised I'd never leave him."_

 _"I know this is scary, but you will be okay. You've already gotten through the worst part; the rest of this is easy. You're a good boy, David. A strong boy. And you are so good at taking care of other people. You took very good care of your little brother when your mother couldn't but now it's time to let someone take care of you."_

Sniffling slightly, Starsky's bottom lip quivered and he opened his eyes. Uncle Al and Aunt Rosie had taken care of him—both then and now. Grabbing the duffle bag's strap he gripped it nervously, raking his palm and fingers absently up and down the nylon as he took one last look around the room. How was he supposed to leave all of this, force himself to live in a newly renovated apartment with the man whose very presence made him quiver in fear?

He didn't want to be afraid of Hutch, nor did he want to be burdened with the crippling grief that accompanied the memories of what Marcus had influenced Hutch to do. But there was no denying the truth and the lingering pain of what had happened would not be easily dismissed or forgotten. Hutch had destroyed everything.

Eyes setting on the Mickey Mouse nightlight still shining prominently in the corner, Starsky snorted thickly and wiped at his teary eyes. Mickey was happy as ever, smiling just to spite the uncertainty seeping into Starsky's heart. While this bedroom had never been home, it was far more comforting than where he was headed.

"Hey Kiddo," Uncle Al said softly.

Wiping the last of his tears away, Starsky turned, forcing a smile as he found Al leaning in the doorway.

"You about ready?" Al asked, averting his eyes around the room. "Ken's waiting for you outside."

Starsky nodded, biting his lip as he felt the sting of fresh tears.

He hadn't wanted to come here—not really—but now he wanted nothing more than to stay. For a second he hoped Uncle Al would insist he would. That he would grab his duffle off his shoulder and toss it on the floor. Cupping the back of his neck, Al would pull him to the living room to share a six pack and curses over whichever favorite sports team was inevitably losing that week.

But looking at Starsky pensively Al didn't do any of those things. And feeling fresh tears trail down his cheeks, Starsky dropped his duffle bag on the floor, fighting a fought a sob as he turned away. He had told himself that he wouldn't do this. That he was much too old to be crying about leaving the safety of a home that never belonged to him. Besides it was such a stupid thing; crying over having to say goodbye his Aunt and Uncle, two people he would certainly see again.

"Hey," Al whispered deeply. Standing behind Starsky he gripped his shoulders, turning him around before enveloping him in a strong hug. He grimaced as Starsky's pressed his head into his shoulder and gave into deep sobs. "It's okay to be scared, David. After everything you've been through going home is a scary thing. But you're strong and brave, and I am so proud of you for trying, especially after everything that has happened." He paused, squeezing Starsky tightly. "I want you to know that we're still here. And I'm only a phone call away. If it gets to be too much for you or it isn't working out. Or if Hutch looks at you the wrong way I want you to call me, okay?"

Tears waning, Starsky laughed thickly. The idea of Al rushing in to defend him from Hutch was comical, but comforting. Coupled with Al's previous affirmations it soothed his anxiety and chased away most of his doubt. Pulling back, Starsky shrugged sheepishly and wiped at his face.

"You hear me?" Al asked, his tone lighter as a smile danced on his gruff features. "I want a yes sir out of you."

"What?" Starsky snorted, his quiet voice scratchy. "When have I _ever_ said that to you?"

"That's the kinda sass I like to hear," Al chuckled, bending over to grab the discarded duffle. Hanging it over Starsky's shoulder, he fiddled with the strap, eyeing his nephew carefully before cuffing the back of his neck and guiding him from the room.

"We love you so much, Davy," Al added as they came upon the front door. He paused as Starsky hesitated, his blue eyes flickering with nervousness as peered out at the street.

Eyes hidden beneath his dark sunglasses, Hutch leaned against the side of his SUV. Waiting for Starsky to emerge from the house, he looked around the quiet neighborhood disinterestedly, absently grinding the tip of his shoe into the curb.

"Your Aunt and I love you," Al repeated. "We would move mountains if we thought it would make things right again, but that one," squeezing Starsky's neck, he nodded at Hutch, "is willing to move heaven and earth for you. You just gotta give him a chance."

 **Month Prior:**

Hutch paced the living room aimlessly.

iPhone pressed firmly against his ear, he listened to the endless ringing on other end of line, silently pleading his call wouldn't go unanswered again. The morning hours had passed slowly, and Dobey had returned home long ago, leaving the house empty and Hutch full of nervous energy and concern for both is missing partner and his wayward dog.

Hospitals had been called, accident reports checked, and jail rosters verified but there was no sign or record of Starsky. It was as though he had just disappeared. Though Starsky's cellphone was still off, Hutch had called it more than a dozen times, and he had left a handful of voice mail messages. Both short and long, his words had varied between angry demands and desperate pleas for Starsky to please return his call. It wasn't until after his fourth call to animal control to check if Lucky had been picked up that it occurred to Hutch to call Starsky's work cell.

 _"... You've reached Sargent Detective David Starsky with the Bay City Police Department..."_

Hutch hung his head, sighing heartily as Starsky's familiar message filled his ear and killed what little hope he had left.

Something was wrong; he had felt it before, but he knew it now. Starsky would never turn his phone off—under any circumstances—nor would he cut off communication for more than a few hours. Maybe it was symptomatic of their careers as cops or maybe it was just one aspect where they were more considerate than other couples, but neither of them would ever disappear without sending a simple text message—even in the middle of a fight. They may not talk things out or volunteer their location but they always verified their safety. It was one of their very few rules.

Abandoning the phone on the coffee table, Hutch sank to the couch. Elbows planted on knees, he leaned forward to rest his head in his hands but stopped abruptly as his eyes caught on the blood staining his fingertips.

Hanging his hands between his knees, he bit his bottom lip and averted his gaze to the wall. He tried not to look at the bloodstains but it was a hard thing to avoid, and he quickly found his gaze returning to them again. Forehead wrinkling, his brows knitted as he became overwhelmed with chest tightening apprehension and crippling guilt. Something had happened, captive to a sleepwalking spell and unconscious of his actions he had done something terrible to Starsky.

 _"You only did what you were meant to,"_ a voice whispered in the back of his mind. Deep and monotone it sounded a lot like Marcus's voice, but different. Because whereas Marcus's voice had always filled Hutch with anger or fear, this voice calmed him. _"You only did what was asked of you."_

But what had been asked of him and by whom? Leaning back into the couch cushions Hutch felt a rush of anxiety as he quickly realized he readily knew the answers to all the haunting questions he'd rather not think about.

 _"Avoiding it doesn't make it not so,"_ the voice whispered again. _"You know what you did, and what is expected of you now."_

"No," Hutch murmured, closing his eyes against the heavy truth of the words. "I won't... I..."

Hearing the heavy grinding of his iPhone vibrating against the tabletop, Hutch's eyes snapped open. Leaning forward he felt relief coupled with joy as he read the contact name displayed prominently on the screen.

 **Incoming Call: David Starsky**

Hastily grabbing the phone, Hutch smiled in relief as he stared at the illuminated screen, and for a moment everything felt right again.

The mysterious voice was imaginary, the panic and paranoia he'd allowed Marcus's warnings and demands to awaken contrived. All miss matched pieces to a different psychological puzzle, they were symptoms brought on by the weight of his grief and the stress of concealing his secret, both issues exaggerated by chronic sleep deprivation. But it _was_ all imaginary—every last bit of it. Seeing Starsky's name on his caller ID was proof that his partner was fine—he had to be if he was finally returning Hutch's frantic calls.

"Baby, where are you?" Hutch breathed into the phone. " _Jesus_ , I've been—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Huggy interrupted, nearly shouting over the loud background bar chatter. "Not your baby and I sure don't want to know what you've been doing."

"Huggy?" Hutch frowned, struggling to reconcile their friend's voice with the contact information displayed on his phone. "What—where's Starsky?"

"How should I know?" Huggy said lightly. "I'm not the one in charge of keeping track of him, that's your job. I was just calling to alert your other half that he left his phone at the bar last night."

"Oh."

All of Hutch's comforting theories about Marcus, Starsky, sanity, and safety disappeared in an instant, and a nervous desperation filled the pit of his stomach as sound of Huggy's voice popped the precarious bubble of denial he had tried so hard to keep adrift.

 _"It was a very nice try,"_ the voice whispered once more. _"But you know where Starsky is and why you are so avoidant of rushing into save him."_

"Hutch?" Huggy asked. "You still there?"

 _"It will be how it is meant to be, you cannot change your role in it now,"_ the voice continued matter-of-factly. _"Avoidance and denial serve no purpose, that is a lesson you should have learned long before now..."_

"Huuuutch? Hutch?" Huggy's sing-song tone filtered through the voice in Hutch's head. "Hey, Man, you still there? Hutch… Hutch… Hutch!"

"What?" Hutch said, his voice loud and harsh as he rubbed his bloodstained fingers over his forehead and struggled to contend with the fear in his chest. Who was this new voice filling his head, and why was it so intent on pointing out the flaws of his deep-seeded coping mechanisms?

"Don't yell at me," Huggy said. "I didn't do anything to you, so don't be taking your bad day out on me."

"Sorry. I... It's been a rough day."

"Yeah, sure."

Exhaling heartily, Hutch didn't reply, and moments later Huggy made a similar noise.

"Okay, fine," Huggy groused. "I heard Starsky's version of recent events last night, you might as well tell me yours."

Explain his version of recent events? Hutch almost cried at the suggestion. There was no point to it and little difference between the two now because they both ended the same way— with Starsky missing and Hutch feeling as though he wanted to sit in a dark corner and sob.

"Starsky didn't come home last night, Hug." Leaning his head on the back of the sectional, Hutch closed his eyes and struggled to repress the panic threatening to overwhelm him.

Starsky didn't come home. The manic phrase repeated over and over in Hutch's head in rhythm with the pounding of heart. Starsky hadn't come home, and he had done something to ensure he never would.

"So... What?" Huggy asked. "You're pissed off because you think he ran to someone other than you? Because I got news for you, blondie, he would never do that."

"Of course not," Hutch said, but at the moment he would have given anything to believe that the reason for Starsky's absence was due to night with someone else. In fact, in comparison it was a comforting thought, a situation which promised a better outcome than their current one. "Did he say anything to you when he left, Hug?" Hutch asked, a note of hysteria to his voice. "He was okay when he left, right?"

"Of course he was," Huggy readily assured. "Drunk," he laughed, "but completely fine. I called a taxi and sent him home a little after closing time. Although by the sounds of you, he altered his plan. He probably decided to hole up in a motel somewhere, to order pizza and PayPerView, and let you sweat a little."

"No," Hutch disagreed but staring at the ceiling he longed for the words to be true. "He wouldn't do that—"

"Are you kidding? With the way the two of you have been lately I'm surprised he didn't do it sooner."

"He didn't do that! He would have texted or called if he did. He would have at least told me he was okay!"

"Okay, okay. Then what do _you_ think happened?"

"I think..." Stomach churning with frustration and dread, Hutch found himself powerless to withhold the suspicion he had been so careful to hide from Dobey. "I think... Simon Marcus has him."

Huggy's silence was excruciating. Intensifying Hutch's anxiety, it filled him with regret as he agonized over words he couldn't take back. He shouldn't have disclosed his knowledge to Huggy, he should have protected it from the people who couldn't possibly understand. Now Huggy was going think he was as crazy as Dobey did, leaving him more alone with his fear and guilt than ever before.

"Hutch," Huggy said finally, his voice gentle but authoritative. "Why the _fuck_ would Starsky mean anything to Simon Marcus? And why would you, of all people, even think that—you don't believe in the things he can do."

"But I do," Hutch insisted, his quiet voice wavering. "I…" Hesitating, he closed his eyes helplessly as Huggy inhaled sharply. "I..." Hutch's jaw burned against the tears he was unable to suppress. "I think I made a mistake."

Xx

Sitting on the dirt covered floor, Starsky groaned as he leaned his back against the cool wall of wherever Marcus and his followers were keeping him. Blindfolded long before he awoke, Starsky hadn't seen the room. But somehow he knew he was no longer in the farmhouse. The room was eerily quiet—too quiet to be a part of an inhabited home. Damp and cold, there was a thick earthy quality to the air, reminding Starsky of a leaky bunker or the lower levels of the decrepit buildings on the edge of the city.

Soaked in blood from the wound on his hairline the blindfold was tied too tight. Creasing his skin, it left a dizzying array of dots in his vision, adding to the nausea bubbling in his stomach and climbing up his throat. His head ached, a horrible throbbing pain that increased with each passing second. The pain was too much, the darkness unbearable, and lifting his arms, Starsky violently pulled against the rope securing his wrists firmly together. The rough texture of the braided rope scratched and burned his already raw wrists, and the panicked pulling did nothing to free him.

Hissing in pain, he abandoned the movement, and leaning his head heavily against the wall, he forced himself to take a series of deep breaths. The action did little to calm the panic building in his chest or the terrifying questions racing through his mind.

Where was Marcus, and how long had he been unconscious and unable to defend himself, held captive to the darkness of an unknown room? Minutes? Hours? Days?

 _"Not long enough,"_ a soft voice whispered, and Starsky gasped, worriedly wondering if the voice had been in his head or if someone was hiding in the shadows of the room.

 _"You are alone,"_ the voice said. _"But are you ever really alone?"_

"Who are you?" Starsky asked.

 _"I am everyone and no one. I am whoever you want me to be."_

"What?"

 _"The question is: who are you?"_

"I..." Starsky began, grimacing as he anticipated footsteps that never came. The air was heavy, thick with despair. There was a pressure on his chest that felt like forceful hands intent on pushing him through the wall. "Please..."

Squeezing his eyes tightly closed beneath the blindfold, Starsky was assaulted with a cluster of haunting memories he'd rather forget. Terrible arguments with Hutch, the emotional aftermath of horrifying cases, and images of the bloody remains of the people they had been too late to save. As quickly as one vivid memory came it was pushed out by another, then another, and another.

Then, suddenly, he was a child again. Shoes sinking into the freshly fallen snow, he watched numbly as his father's casket was lowered into frozen ground. His mother's sobs of despair filled the air, overpowering the bitter chill of the day and the soft sniffing of the small crowd as she clung to Starsky hand. Knees buckling, she sank to the cold ground, squeezing his hand too tight as her weight threatened to pull his small body down with her.

"Mom," Starsky whispered, his young voice tight with pain as he struggled against her dangerous grasp. "Let me go, Mom. Please let me go..."

 _"And she did let you go, eventually,"_ the voice whispered again. _"Didn't she? Only when she let go it was for good."_

Shaking his head numbly, Starsky choked on a sob as hands trailed up and down his chest. The hands were confusing. Bitterly cold, the long masculine fingers had elongated fingernails with tips files into razor sharp points. The touch left Starsky's skin feeling frostbitten and on fire at the same time.

 _"Yes, she did,"_ the voice laughed. _"Only it was too late by then. The damage was done, and fear awakened. And to this day you're still afraid of being as crazy as she is."_

"N-no."

Starsky flinched, groaning as he felt the tips of the fingernails scrape his collarbone. The pain was sharp, leaving thin deep scratches behind. His skin swelled immediately, reddening in protest as blood rushed to the surface to gather and trickle slowly from the fresh wounds. He lifted his bound arms automatically to push his assailant away, but he gasped in terror as he found the space in front of him empty.

He felt long fingernails scratching him deeply, leaving long lines that promised to scar, but there was no one in front or beside him.

Starsky was alone in the room.

 _"Not alone,"_ the voice promised. _"Never alone. Wherever you go you have the pain of the past to keep you company."_

"Who are you?" Starsky screamed hysterically. "What do you want?"

 _"Everything,"_ the voice whispered, almost too soft to hear.

Breathing heavily, Starsky felt the felt the hands disappear, and for a moment the only sound he could hear was the frantic pounding of his heart.

"I want everything," the voice repeated, but its tone had transformed. Suddenly it sounded smooth, gruff, and too familiar. "You promised me the world, baby, and I intend to have it."

"What?" Starsky choked, his lower lip quivering as he fought to understand what he was hearing and why.

Tears filled his eyes as the blindfold was slowly removed and dropped to the floor. Kneeling before him, illuminated by the light of dim sporadic candles, was Hutch. Crystal eyes glistening with joy and mouth upturned in an evil grin, Hutch reached out his fingertips to graze Starsky's lips.

Grasping Hutch's wrist, Starsky held it hostage between his bound hands and skittishly inspected his fingernails. They looked normal; short and neatly trimmed as always, the nail on Hutch's thumb was still purple and bruised—the result of an unfortunate incident with a kitchen cabinet three days ago.

"H-Hutch?" Starsky asked hesitantly. The horrific memories of the Hutch in his nightmares swirled in his head, filling his stomach with a heavy uneasiness when he longed to feel joy.

"Yeah, baby?"

"How are you here?"

"That's a dumb question," Hutch reprimanded, his voice low and gentle despite the harsh words. Pulling his hand from Starsky's grasp, his brows narrowed as he moved his fingers to inspect Starsky's head wound. "With all the things you long to ask why do you always pick questions with answers you already know?"

Closing his eyes tightly, Starsky leaned into the touch as he felt Hutch's gentle fingers card through his blood soaked curls. He wondered if he really did know how Hutch had appeared in the room, but quickly dismissed the question as it wouldn't lead to anything good. The dangerous being who been there moments ago was gone; its sharp fingernails had been replaced by the gentle comfort of Hutch's hands, and Starsky longed to hold to this moment— to imprint it in his memory and hold on to it forever.

"This looks like it hurts," Hutch said softly, grazing his fingertips over the deep wound on Starsky's hairline.

Hissing in pain, Starsky fought a wave of nausea as a series of dots danced behind his closed eyelids.

"I'm sorry, Baby."

"It's okay."

"I just wanted to knock you out." Pulling his hands away, Hutch clicked his tongue. "I never meant to make you bleed."

Eyes snapping open, Starsky looked at him in horror. "You knocked me out?"

"Well, how else was I gonna get you here?" Hutch rolled his eyes. "You sure weren't going to come yourself!" he said, his crazed tone bordering on laughter as he pointed an index finger in Starsky's face. "I really didn't want to give you a concussion, but you know how feisty you can be, and you just _wouldn't_ stop fighting me. You just _didn't_ want to come here, not after everything you dreamed." Reaching out, he wrapped both his hands around the base of Starsky's skull, slipping his long fingers between thick sections of curly hair. "But here you are," he continued, his tone deepening as his eyes sparkled with dangerous anger. "All because you were too terrified of a few stupid dreams to stop me. And now there will be _no_ stopping me or what is to come."

Vision swimming, Starsky's nausea intensified. He felt a rush of agony, yelping in pain as Hutch's fingernails quickly grew becoming long, razor sharp points that pressed deeply into the back of his head.

"God, I love you," Hutch whispered roughly. "You always were the best _fucking_ thing about me."

Face set in a crazed expression, his fingernails broke through Starsky's scalp, and Starsky screamed in agony as thick lines of blood trailed down Hutch's fingertips and spilled to the floor.

"Let me go," Starsky croaked, grimacing as he struggled to pull his head from Hutch's firm grasp.

The pain in his head intensified and he screamed as Hutch squeezed harder, shoving his fingernails impossibly deep. Choking on a sob, Starsky felt as though his skin was being torn from his scalp, and just when he thought he couldn't take anymore the fingertips were pulled forcefully from his head.

"I'll never let you go. _Never_ ," Hutch said vehemently, standing to tower over Starsky. "He wanted me, but you are _mine_."

Inhaling sharply, Starsky felt the agonizing pressure on his chest return, a terrible weight that seemed intent on breaking his bones and turning them into dust. Blood spilled from the back of his head as he peered up at Hutch's hardened features and struggled to breath. For a moment they held each other's gaze, and Starsky wondered if he was stuck in another dream. But feeling the warmth of the blood trickling down his neck, he mournfully realized he wasn't—as Marcus had said, you couldn't bleed in your dreams—then he wondered how this terrible nightmarish version of Hutch planned to kill him, if he would do it swiftly or drag it out. Absently, he hoped it would be quick.

Feeling the pressure on his chest intensify, Starsky flinched as Hutch took a step backwards, then watched in horror as the image of Hutch slowly disappeared. Scanning the empty room frantically, Starsky nearly sobbed as a gritty inhuman laughter echoed in the darkness.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**Current Day:**

"Well, at least you left your Aunt and Uncle's place," Huggy mumbled. Crossing his arms, he leaned back in his lawn chair and watched Lucky drop the slimy tennis ball in Starsky's lap, anxiously awaiting yet another throw. "I guess the dog likes the new digs okay, huh?" he added, his gaze following the movement of the tennis ball as Starsky tossed it against the far wall of the brick enclosed patio.

Grunting, Starsky nodded, his focus not wavering from rambunctious Lucky who had returned the ball once more.

Exhaling heavily, Huggy hooked his ankle over his knee and cringed as the lawn chair squealed in protest. The chair was rickety and old; a stark contrast to the newness of everything that surrounded them.

The updates to Venice Place where as impressive as the short time they had been completed in, and though he frequented the apartment, each time Huggy found himself as taken aback by the changes as he had been the first time he'd seen them.

The interior of Venice Place was incredible, and the patio area hidden in the back of building beautiful. The tall walls enclosing the space had been cleaned, brightening the faded hues of the old bricks to contrast nicely against the lush leafy plants placed sporadically around the area and the dark black finish of the French doors leading to the kitchen. A large grill sat in the far corner opposite a wooden picnic table, and strings of lights had been hung high over the tall brick walls, cross-crossing the open ceiling their soft light illuminated the space at night. Every item had been carefully chosen and purposefully placed to inspire and foster feelings of calm safety and peaceful security for both inhabitants and lucky visitors. Starsky, however, didn't seem to be enjoying either of those feelings, nor did he seem deeply affected—or aware—of how carefully Hutch had planned their new home.

Awaiting another pitch of the tennis ball, Lucky's tail wagged ferociously. Obnoxiously hitting the side of his rickety lawn chair, it filled the air with a precarious creaking noise and left Huggy swaying dangerously as each motion threatened to break the chair and send him tumbling to the ground. Frowning, Huggy wondered what would have possessed Starsky to bring the near crumbling chairs to his new home.

With dented aluminum skeletons and various frayed tears and burn marks speckling the muted red, green, and white webbing, the chairs had been well used. He readily recognized them from the countless cook outs and fire pit gatherings of their youth. He recalled Uncle Al once proudly boasting that the chairs were older than Starsky and Huggy were. That had been years ago, when he and Starsky had been nervously anticipating their first day as high school freshman at Rosie and Al's yearly end of summer barbecue.

It seemed like a lifetime ago, but for a moment Huggy wished they could go back to that time, when things had been easier and their most pressing problems consisted of not getting stuck in the classroom of a particularly intimidating teacher and making first string on the basketball team. Though they had seemed monstrous at the time, those problems were so much easier than what faced them now.

Huggy would have been lying if he said that Starsky's decision to move back in with Hutch hadn't been a relief. At the time it had been. Hiding inside the familiar safe confines of his Aunt and Uncle's home, Starsky's anger had faded but his fear had intensified—something that was never going to improve if he remained where he was. Disconnected from his life and his partner, and without anger to sooth him, Starsky had become captive to his growing fear.

Though Huggy knew fear in the absence of anger was a difficult feeling for Starsky to negotiate—even under the best of circumstances—he firmly believed that that Starsky needed to stop hiding. The only way he was ever going to feel better was to make steps was to reintegrate himself into his old life or at least make a solid effort to begin the new one Hutch had been so eager to present him with.

It had been a scary prospect, Huggy knew that at the time. Starsky had been through so much at the hands of Simon Marcus and whatever secret power he had somehow harnessed. Breaking Starsky's body, Marcus had fractured his mind, leaving him with a serious of mixed up memories and bone-chilling terror that promised to never fully disappear. Yet, Huggy had remained hopeful—almost certain—that while Hutch had somehow become the source of Starsky's irrational fear, he was the key to unraveling it as well.

But watching Starsky carefully, noting how his wide eyes darted nervously around, how the dark circles under his eyes had intensified, and how he couldn't seem to relax, Huggy sadly realized his relief had been premature. Moving back in with Hutch wasn't making Starsky better; it was making him worse.

"So," Huggy said. Pretending not to notice Starsky's nervous fingers picking on the stark white bandage on his cheek, he longed ask why he still felt the need to cover a wound that had long since scabbed over and probably healed. Was Starsky fearful of being presented with the startling redness of such a visible scar? Or worse? So used to rubbing the area, was he afraid of absently reaching for what had become a grounding comfort, and instead feeling the foreign bumps and ridges marring his skin? But Huggy couldn't bring himself to press Starsky about his bandage, so asked something else. "Where's your other-half?"

"Running." Starsky shrugged, tossing the tennis ball once more.

"Why didn't he take Lucky with him?"

"He took Lucky this morning."

"This _morning_? How many times is he running a day?"

"I dunno. I don't keep track of him."

Noting the glint of fear in Starsky's eyes, Huggy gathered that his childhood best friend did care about Hutch's whereabouts—much more than he wanted to and more than he should. But it wasn't worried concern that motivated his attentiveness it was deep-seeded fear. Despite furious claims otherwise, Starsky remained stagnantly terrified of his partner.

But Hutch had remained stagnate too, Huggy mused. Running countless times a day and passively accepting Starsky's fear, he had allowed himself to become terrified too. Too afraid of pushing too far or hurting Starsky more, Hutch had become captive to his own quiet fear, and instead of facing their problems head on, it seemed he remained intent on running away.

"So, how's therapy going?" Huggy probed, and when Starsky shrugged for a third time, he wondered what he would have to say to get a passionate reaction from his once fiery friend.

"Fine," Starsky said quietly.

"How's the psych?" Huggy asked, determined to engage Starsky until he either felt pushed into giving more descriptive answers or completely shut down. "You still like her okay?"

"She's fine."

"What do you guys talk about?"

"Stuff."

"What kind of stuff?"

"Therapy stuff."

"What does that mean?"

"Just... Stuff."

Scowling, Starsky hurled the tennis ball against the far wall of the patio with increased force. Rushing to retrieve it, Lucky hesitated as the ball bounced back rapidly, nearly hitting him as it whizzed past his muzzle and clipped a potted plant hanging near the entrance to the house. The planter swayed dangerously for a moment before falling to the floor and landing with a crash.

Startled, Starsky sprung up from his chair and looked rapidly around. Body rigid, his eyes widened in fear as he quietly searched for an unknown assailant, an invisible being responsible the unexpected noise.

"It was just the planter," Huggy assured gently, his finger outstretched at the mess on the ground. "You knocked it down with the tennis ball."

"Oh." Swallowing thickly, Starsky nodded. But disbelieving fear marked his features as his eyes continued to dart around the darkened corners of the patio, carefully searching for something unseen.

Huggy cringed, shocked by his friend's overt fear as he wondered what terror the noise had left Starsky anticipating. And, suddenly, he felt a terrible sadness; the anxious person standing before him was distinctly different from strong man he had once known. He had long suspected that Starsky wasn't doing well because he stubbornly choosing to avoid dealing with the truth of what had happened. But it wasn't until now that Huggy knew the truth. Starsky wasn't choosing to avoid anything, his fear left him incapable of doing anything else.

"Where are you keeping the broom these days?" Huggy asked, standing from his chair.

"What?"

"The broom? Maybe a dustpan?" Huggy smiled nodding at the fallen plant Lucky was sniffing interestedly. "I figure we oughta clean this up before your dog gets the bright idea of marking it as his own."

"Oh..." Forehead wrinkling, Starsky shook his head. "I have no idea. I..." He hesitated, looking lost. "We moved and...Everything's different now; nothing is the way it was before."

Huggy wanted to say that things had changed long before they had moved but fought the urge. Squeezing Starsky's arm tightly, he forced a comforting smile and strode to the apartment to search for a broom. He couldn't help wishing that returning order to Starsky's life would be as simple as cleaning up the plant—that they could somehow quickly discard the painful broken pieces of what Starsky's life had been and replace it with something new. But digging around the new grandiose kitchen and before turning his gaze to the beautiful apartment surrounding him, Huggy quickly realized that was what Hutch trying—and failing—to do.

Xx

"What happened here?" Hutch asked breathlessly, his chest still heaving from exertion, as he stared at the rescued remains of a beloved plant sitting in a mixing bowl on the counter.

Sitting at the kitchen island, Huggy looked up from his phone and shrugged. "Mild accident involving a tennis ball. Couldn't find an extra planter, so I improvised until you could work your magic."

"Starsky could have told you where another once was."

"Starsky doesn't know where anything is. He couldn't even tell me where to find a broom."

A thoughtful look settled on Hutch's face as he pulled a drinking glass from the cabinet. Pressing it firmly to the filtered water dispenser on the exterior of the fridge, he drank a full glass greedily, then another.

Barely suppressing an eye roll as his observation went carefully ignored, Huggy watched Hutch warily. Not speaking again until Hutch filled the glass for a third time. "How far are you running these days?"

"Hm..." Placing the half empty glass next to the sink, Hutch peered out the window and out into the patio. "Upwards of fifteen miles... I think."

"What do you mean, you think?"

"I don't keep track," Hutch said, his eyes searching for something unseen as he lifted the bottom of his sweat soaked t-shirt and wiped at the droplets dripping down his face. "I just run until I feel like stopping."

"Which is when?" Forehead puckering, Huggy frowned. "Never?"

Ignoring the question, Hutch tilted his head toward the window. "Where's Starsky?"

"He said he was tired. He took Lucky and disappeared to his bedroom a while go. It's funny," Huggy smiled, "that dog used to be your shadow and now he's Starsky's."

Eyebrows raising, Hutch didn't disagree. Lucky had become endlessly protective of Starsky; often underfoot and in the way, anywhere Starsky went the dog followed. Shortly after the three of them moved into Venice Place Lucky had developed an unsettling habit of growling and barking at Hutch. It didn't happen often—only when Hutch's movements were too abrupt and the antsy Dalmatian perceived them as threatening—but just like Starsky, Lucky didn't like Hutch to be too close. Lucky had begun sleeping in Starsky's bedroom; laying in front of the door, held securely shut by three deadbolts, the dog kept careful watch over Starsky as he slept—or didn't sleep as Hutch suspected, as he struggled to ignore his partner's muffled cries that filled the middle of the night.

"Lucky's pretty protective of Starsky these days," Hutch said softly, absently wondering what it would take for the dog to feel comfortable again. What it would take for all of them to feel normal again.

"Apparently so are you," Huggy groused.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You said he was doing better—"

"He is doing better!" Hutch insisted indignantly. "Every day he gets a little better—"

"Or worse. When was the last time he left the apartment?"

"We've only been here for a couple of weeks."

"When was the last time he did something other than watch TV—"

"He spent all afternoon on the patio, didn't he?" Hutch nodded, satisfied the afternoon's events would calm Huggy's incessant prying.

But Huggy wasn't satisfied, nor was he pleased. "You know, Hutch," he said, his tone soft and serious. "Pretending Starsky's fine doesn't make it so."

"Who's pretending?"

"You."

"Bull-shit," Hutch growled. Gripping the side of the countertop tightly, he forced his gaze back out the window and his anger down.

"How can you stand there and say that? How can you spend every day with him and not see what I saw in ten minutes?"

"Starsky is getting better," Hutch insisted stubbornly. "He's visiting his psych—"

"Avoiding you? Locking himself in the bedroom?" Huggy challenged. "Jumping at every noise he hears? That's not getting better."

"What do you expect from him?"

"Starsky is still struggling with what happened, and I don't expect a lot from him right now." Elbows resting on the island, Huggy covered his fist with his other hand and squeezed it tightly. Trying to alleviate the guilt seeping into his stomach as he pressed the sensitive subject. "But I expect a lot more from you. You know, Hutch, the whole mess with Marcus began because you were too busy covering up the truth to admit how horrible things were. By the time you finally asked for help it was almost too late."

Mouth agape, Hutch turned and stared dumbly.

"I want to hope you won't make the same mistake twice," Huggy continued. "That you can see what is happening right in front of your eyes. Starsky is terrified. He hasn't moved passed anything."

"He came home, didn't he?" Hutch exploded, furious at the words. "He came home to move forward, to work on things. God, Huggy, he is _fine_. Okay? Maybe he's not normal yet but give it time. He _will_ be!"

"Yeah, sure. And what about you?"

"What about me?"

"When are you going to admit how much this whole thing screwed you up?"

"It isn't—"

"Oh, come on!" Huggy said, his voice uncharacteristically severe. "I was there. I saw what you saw, I felt what you felt, don't tell me that shit isn't affecting you. Running fifteen miles a day? Not bullying Starsky into spilling his guts, that isn't you."

Flatting his palms against the countertop, Hutch's mouth formed a furious line. "Maybe you don't know me as well as you think you do," he said, the quiet angry words escaping him before thought about them—or the impact they could have. "You think I don't know what you saw? What I didn't—"mouth snapping shut, he turned his gaze to floor. Now was not the time to be screaming at Huggy over something he couldn't change—not when Starsky could so easily overhear, and especially not when he couldn't trust himself to say things he wouldn't be able to retract. "I think you should go," he added moments later, his serious eyes meeting Huggy's startled ones.

"Yeah," Huggy snorted disappointedly. "You tell Starsky I'll text him later." Standing, he stuck his hands deep into his jean pockets. His eyes sparkled with frustration as he carefully considered his next words. "You aren't doing anyone good by ignoring what you don't want to think about, Hutch. And it doesn't change what's happening around you. It doesn't make things any easier when you're finally forced to deal with how you feel—"

"It makes it worse, right?" Hutch said scornfully. "You think I haven't heard that before? With my father and the way I grew up? _Christ_ , I could write a fucking book about the advice you're trying to give me right now."

"Like I said," Huggy whispered stubbornly. "I hope you don't make the same mistake twice."

Xx

"Hey, Starsk?" Hutch said, gently knocking on his partner's bedroom door.

The sun had set, taking the warmth of the day and leaving behind a dark uncertainty that was hard to ignore. Leaning on his forearm, Hutch pressed his head to the door, yearning for Starsky answer him or better yet, open the door.

The bedroom was mostly quiet, save for the muffled dialogue of a random TV show filtering through the thickness of the door. Hutch had been aware of Starsky's need to fill silence but hadn't realized the extent of this need until he moved back in. An active TV set had become a mandatory requirement for Starsky. Morning, afternoon, and night all transpired with a TV softly murmuring in the background. If it were an earlier time, Hutch would have been concerned about this type of behavior, but instead he was terrified—both of Starsky's fear-fueled aversion to silence and what kind of complications the behavior promised to cause in the future.

Hutch couldn't help wondering why Starsky was afraid of silence; was it just a coping mechanism, a distraction to avoid thinking about what had happened? Or was Starsky afraid of what he might hear in the silence; did he still believe there was an unseen thing hiding in the darkness awaiting a perfect moment to whisper torturous things?

"Starsky?"

Canned TV laughter filled the air as the question went unanswered, and gaze turned downward Hutch saw the bright beams of lamplight shining through the gap between the hardwood and the bottom of the door.

Starsky's need to lock himself in his bedroom after nightfall wasn't a new. Neither were the bright beam of lights seeping through the bottom of the door. Sleeping or not, he kept his bedroom brightly illuminated, symptomatic of a newly discovered fear of the dark. Or maybe it was just news to him, Hutch frowned, maybe the fear had been there since Starsky's rescue and he hadn't known because of the distance between them. It was a rift that had grown larger than Hutch could have ever imagined and promised to tear them apart permanently, if they didn't start working things out soon.

Hutch heard a soft clanking of Lucky's tags swinging from his collar, then a curious sniffing sound as the dog moved to inspect his presence from the other side of the door.

"Starsky?" Hutch asked again, smiling slightly as Lucky began gently scratching the bottom of the door.

"What?"

Startled by the response, Hutch pulled his head back. Pausing thoughtfully, he wondered if he had imagined his partner's soft response. "Starsky?"

"Hutch."

Grateful for the immediate response, Hutch closed his eyes, and asked the only other thing he could think of. "You hungry?"

"No."

"You sure? You've been in there for hours—"

"Yes," Starsky said, his voice muffled but tone shockingly strong, and loud enough to make Hutch take a step back.

Sighing, Hutch opened his eyes. "Well… can you at least let me have Lucky? He's been in there as long as you have. I'm sure he needs a trip outside. "The question was met with silence, and Hutch hated himself for pushing Starsky to do something he was so uncomfortable with. Though Starsky may not want to come out of the bedroom, Lucky needed to, even if it was only long enough for a brief trip outside. And clenching his fist, Hutch tried again. "Starsky, please—"

" _Fine_."

"Really?" Hutch's face contorted with skeptical shock. Starsky had never agreed to open the door after nightfall before.

"Just..." Starsky continued, his voice a little less sure as his bare feet softly padded to stand on the other side of the door. "Go to the kitchen and wait, okay? I'll send Lucky out after you."

"He won't come looking for me, Starsk." Hutch shook his head. "He's..." He stopped, regret tugging at his heart as the next part of his sentence went unsaid. _He's afraid I'll hurt you; just like you are._

Palm pressed to the door, he forced his regret down. Taking a deep breath, he briefly imagined Starsky was caressing the other side of the door, longing for his company and the safety he was once able to provide.

"Go into the living room, wait five minutes and then come back," Starsky said, his voice rich with feigned strength. "He'll be waiting on the other side of the door."

"Okay, five minutes," Hutch agreed, turning and regretfully striding down the hallway and into the living room.

Sinking helplessly on the couch, Hutch fought an overwhelming sadness as he heard Starsky's door open then swiftly close. They had only been living together for a week, but how much longer could this go on? And haunted by Huggy's earlier words, he was suddenly overwhelmed by the notion that things would only get worse from here. The truth of what Huggy had been so careful to not to say weighed heavily on Hutch's heart as he groaned and rubbed his hands through his hair.

Hearing a soft whine, Hutch's eyes snapped to the doorway, and his mouth fell open slightly at what he saw. Standing in the entry to the room was Lucky. Evaluating Hutch carefully, his inquisitive brown eyes sparkled with apprehensive happiness as he softly whined once more.

"Hey, Pal," Hutch said, voice full of awe over Lucky's presence. For the first time since Starsky had returned, the dog had wandered from his protective post and sought him out instead. Sitting on the edge of the couch, Hutch outstretched a welcoming hand and waved the dog toward him. "Come here, buddy."

Head lowering, Lucky's ears flattened on the back of his head. He lingered in the doorway a moment more before moving purposefully toward Hutch.

"That's it." Petting Lucky gently, Hutch was relieved when the dog didn't pull away. Instead, Lucky sat at his feet and leaned into the touch. "It's okay," he whispered thickly, wondering if the assurance was more for himself or the skittish dog. "We can get through this, right? It'll get better…"

Xx

"… I can make this all right again, and I promise you I will."

Inches from the doorway to the living room, back pressed firmly to the cold hallway wall, Starsky squeezed his eyes shut as Hutch's soft vow reached his ears. For a moment, he allowed himself to pretend he was the one Hutch was making the promise to. It was a nice thought, warm enough to chase away some of his anxiety and fear. But the feeling didn't last for long before his heart sank, weighed down by a memory awoken by the darkness of the dimly lit hallway and the coldness of the hardwood floor.

 _"I assure you,"_ Marcus's words came rushing back, as they often did. Chasing away any hit of Starsky's desire to reach out to Hutch. _"His promises are empty, his love is contrived. He will say and do anything to get you where he wants you. And in the end, it will mean nothing. You will suffer for his scars, the things you know yet pretend to be unaware of, and captive to what happened, what will happen here and the things he will do once I'm gone, he will hold on to you tightly. He will do anything to make you stay."_

Hearing the leather couch moan as Hutch stood, Starsky's nervous eyes snapped open. Careful not to be seen by his approaching partner, he tiptoed back to his bedroom and hid behind the comfort of the solid door, quietly locking the deadbolts one-by-one as Hutch and Lucky strode swiftly down the staircase. Walking through the front door, they disappeared together into the unsure darkness of the night.


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**Months Prior:**

Striding purposefully through Metro's front door and to Captain Dobey's office, Hutch struggled to ignore the stares of the sporadic officers he passed along the way. Though he was sure Dobey had remained quiet regarding the nature of his forced absence, the curious and surprised looks of his superiors and peers only confirmed that word had gotten around.

Days had passed since he'd been found sleepwalking and wandering around an unfamiliar neighborhood, and to Hutch it felt like a lifetime. Agonizingly slow, the hours had passed one-by-one, with no word from Starsky or any sign of Lucky. Leaving the bar shortly after Hutch confessed his suspicion about Simon Marcus and what he believed was his disastrous role in his partner's disappearance had been, Huggy had remained at Hutch's side. And though happy for the company, Hutch found his presence comforting but hindering. Huggy wouldn't allow Hutch to visit the Marcus Compound again, insisting instead that they first involve Dobey and recruit reinforcements.

At first, Hutch wasn't sure why Huggy had remained so adamant they wait; if he would have had his way then then they would have gone rushing in shortly after their phone call. But night had come; darkness fallen, and though worried about Starsky, Huggy had been obstinately against venturing on compound at night—alone with no reinforcements.

Then the next day, Hutch had been the hesitant one. Overwhelmed by guilt and tortured by what he didn't know, he had found himself unable to make a move. Stomach endlessly churning from the invisible bloodstains marking his hands, he had remained frozen in place by guilt and fear. What if Marcus wanted him to come to the compound; what if he had taken Starsky to ensure his arrival, something that would guarantee whatever horrifying thing would come next?

But Huggy had been frightened too—unsettled by something that had occurred during the night. Sleeping in Starsky and Hutch's spare bedroom, he had been startled awake by a strange noise, and when he had gone to investigate he been horrified by what he found.

Seemingly sleepwalking, Hutch had left the house again. Striding purposefully down the dark empty street of their beach community, Huggy had stopped Hutch before he wandered too far. But clenching Hutch's upper arms Huggy had been shocked by what he heard and saw. Wide open, Hutch's wild eyes had changed; they shined with malicious evil as he deeply repeated Simon Marcus's first name. Shaking him violently, minutes had passed before Huggy was finally able to rouse Hutch from the dream, vision, or walking nightmare he had fallen victim to. And standing barefoot, frozen by the chill in the air, Hutch had no memory of how he had gotten there or why he would be manically repeating Marcus's name.

Though deeply unsettled, Huggy been willing to dismiss Hutch's odd behavior, then the next night it happened again. And haunted by bloodstains on his fingertips and behavior he couldn't control, Hutch had conceded to Huggy request for reinforcements and sought out help from the only person he could think of.

Standing in front of Dobey's closed office door, Hutch grasped the doorknob tightly. Nervousness fluttered in the pit of his stomach as he glanced around the empty hallway. Going to Dobey was risky, as his superior was already skeptical of his strange behavior. But knocking on the door with his freehand and hearing Dobey's invitation to enter, Hutch vowed to do he everything he could to make Dobey believe him.

Illuminated by the afternoon sun shining brightly through the twin windows behind his desk, Dobey's eyes flashed with momentary bewilderment as he watched Hutch enter his office. Pulling his hands off his laptop, he glanced at a stack of files next to the inbox on the edge of his desk, taking a second to mask his shock over Hutch's sudden presence.

When Dobey looked at him again, Hutch saw the irritation in his eyes, and crossing his arms nervously he forced himself to ignore the innate feelings the look evoked. His father used to look at him like that, he thought absently. And how many times had they had meetings like this? His father's stern face frozen in a frown as he peered at him judgmentally, expectantly awaiting an fabricated admission Hutch knew would infuriate him beyond reason.

"Hutch," Dobey said, his voice soft but as expectant as Richard Hutchinson's had been. "What are you doing here?"

"I need to talk to you."

"Okay," Dobey sighed regretfully. "Why don't you have a seat?"

"No." Hutch shook his head; the idea of sitting was impossible comprehend. Standing allowed him to look down at Dobey rather than up—a small victory that was needed if he intended to follow through with his difficult confession. His father had always made him sit, the maddening thought sprung readily to his mind. A dominating command intended to make Hutch feel small and weak. "No, I-I'd rather stand."

"Okay." Tenting his hands on the desk, Dobey watched expectantly as Hutch remained quiet and averted his uneasy gaze around the room. "What did you want to talk about?"

"I…"

Hutch hesitated as his nervous eyes met Dobey's questioning gaze; there was a gruff hint of understanding in Dobey's eyes. As softness to his expectation that Hutch had never seen from his father. Dobey was worried, and rightfully so, but suddenly Hutch couldn't bring himself to disclose what he had come to confess—the inexplicable hold Simon Marcus had somehow gained over him and his fear of what he had done to his partner—for fear of losing the glint of genuine concern glistening in Dobey's familiar brown eyes.

His father had never looked at him like that, Hutch thought mournfully. His father had never cared for him the way he should have.

"Hutch?" Dobey prompted. "What did you need to talk about?"

"I," Hutch hedged, his haunted gaze locking on his superior's as words began spilling numbly from his open mouth. "I was wondering how long Starsky has to be gone before you finally believe me."

Sighing exasperatedly, Dobey rested his shaking head in his hands. "Hutch," he said, his voice painfully gentle and soft. "We talked about this, Starsky is fine. I promise you, he is angry but fine."

"But he isn't," Hutch whispered, his helpless nervousness growing as tears sprung to his eyes. "I just... I need to know how long you're going to wait until you decide to help—"

"Hutch." Dobey raised a silencing hand. "I offered you help. Remember?"

Cringing at the softness of his superior's tone, Hutch nodded as he stared at the floor. It was clear that the help Dobey was offering wasn't what he needed. Though his superior's eyes were different than his father's, his response had been the same.

"But," Hutch said quietly. "Simon Marcus—"

"Didn't have anything to do with Starsky choosing to leave."

"You don't understand."

"I understand." Taking a file from his inbox, Dobey ruffled through it before pulling out a report and sliding it to the end of the desk. "The other day after I left you at home, I didn't like how odd you were acting. I had a feeling you weren't telling me everything. I drove to the Marcus Compound—"

" _What_?" Hutch asked. An icy chill crept up his spine as he took a nervous step back. Why would Dobey do that? Why wouldn't he believe him?

"Hutch, your report on Marcus and your assessment of the property are completely incorrect—"

" _No_ ," Hutch breathed, his face falling with disbelief.

"Yes," Dobey affirmed sadly. "And Starsky isn't missing, he called me this morning to tell me what I already suspected—"

"That's a lie!" Eyes widening, Hutch wrapped his arms around himself. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be. How could the property be any different than it had been, and how could Starsky have called Dobey? He was missing, and Huggy had his cellphone. "No." Breaths coming in gasps, Hutch took a step back. "Starsky wouldn't have—he _couldn't_ have—"

"He did. Starsky told me everything, Hutch. About your father and how odd you've been acting since his death—"

"No." Shaking his head violently, Hutch continued retreating backwards, only stopping when his back hit the closed office door. Jumping slightly, his hand clenched the doorknob as his thoughts became panicked.

Starsky was missing; he couldn't have told Dobey anything. But who had, and what had they disclosed about him and his father? Which horrifying stories had finally been shared?

Standing from his chair, Dobey approached him slowly, holding his hands up in a nonthreatening manner as though he was approaching a frightened child or a wounded animal.

"Hutch, you're having some sort of breakdown. You need help. You need to allow me to get you the help you need—"

"No," Hutch said. "That's not what's happening. You have no idea what's really going on here."

Opening the door abruptly, he quickly escaped the confines of the baffling conversation and the office. Leaving Dobey lingering regretfully in the middle of the room, helplessly repeating his name as Hutch disappeared down the empty hallway.

Xx

 _"Simon… Simon… Simon…"_

Walking slowly down the familiar darkness of the farmhouse hallway, Starsky flinched with each melodic repeat of his captor's name. Stepping purposefully, his bare feet made little noise as they connected with the cold hardwood floor. His shoes had been taken, but he couldn't remember how or when. Torn, blood soaked and stained, his clothes had been removed, replaced by thin black robe that swayed at his knees as he moved.

Marked by sporadic cuts and deep scratches, his body felt raw but numb. Unnerved by what he tried to remember and struggled to forget, his mind was hysterical but calm. Though he didn't remember coming into Marcus's farmhouse, why he had been left alone, or how had he had made it upstairs, Starsky was certain of why he was there—held captive at Marcus's compound at this very moment in time.

It was what Hutch had wanted; it was what he and Marcus had planned from the start.

 _"Simon… Simon… Simon…"_

The air was rotten, dense with death and fear. Long, thick liquid lines trailed down the walls and spilled to the floor. Eerily calm, Starsky remained unconcerned, even as he walked through a warm puddle and began marking his movement with the messy bloodstained imprints his feet left behind. But nothing could frighten him now—as Marcus had said, this was how things were meant to be.

Coming to the top of the staircase Starsky paused. His glassy eyes scanned the darkness below, searching for the bodies belonging to the chorus of voices, a hint of others who remained obscured by blackness.

" _Si—mon… Si—mon…"_ a lone voice whispered, elongating syllables and stretching out the name. " _Si—mon… Si—mon…"_

Recognizing the high pitched tone, Starsky's eyes widened in fear. Taking a step back he wrapped his arms around himself, frantically shaking his head against the panic clutching his heart as his certainty left him. This wasn't how it supposed to be. Marcus had told him it would be different; he had warned him with his dreams. The voice was supposed to be Hutch and Marcus, not the unseen entity who tortured him with the past.

 _"I am everyone,"_ the voice reminded. _"And no one—"_

"Wake up!"

A gruff hand slapped Starsky across the face, then grasping the top of his t-shirt, pulled him to sit upright.

Moving his head drunkenly from side-to-side Starsky moaned but didn't open his eyes. The numbness of the hallway was gone, replaced by searing pain shooting through his body. Dry and gritty his mouth tasted of dried blood. The deep wounds, left behind by long sharp fingernails, stung, blending with the relentless pounding of his head and making Starsky feel as though he was seconds from throwing up or passing out. But before he could do either, he was hit again.

"Wake up!" The assailant growled as his fist made contact with Starsky's mouth.

Lower lip splitting open, Starsky tasted blood. Though he was happy the interruption had ended his nightmare, the blood tricking down the side of his mouth filled him with anger. Would it kill the voice to be a little less heavy handed? At the rate it was going, he was going to bleed out before things could get more interesting. Not that he was awaiting any more excitement than he had already experienced, Starsky mused. The voice in the shadows had already terrified him more than he ever thought possible.

Hiding in the darkness, it never showed its true form. Instead it chose to mask itself with the faces of people Starsky already knew. Hutch, Aunt Rosie, Uncle Al, his mother—who had been a particularity painful one—the voice had gone through them all. Appearing as comforting, though unsettling versions of those he loved, the voice would use their words and mannerisms to threaten Starsky with his worst fears. Sometimes it would use their hands to beat him; sometimes it would make their bodies sit across the room. But using their voice, it always said the things Starsky had been most afraid to hear.

Uncle Al and Aunt Rosie told him they never wanted him. His mother that she wished he'd died instead of his father, but Hutch was the most painful and most relenting of them all.

Squeezing his eyes shut tightly, Starsky fought a wave of fearful panic as he desperately hoped the voice hadn't decided to become Hutch again. He couldn't stand another second of Hutch's violent anger or the horrible pain he had inflicted. He couldn't bear to hear the deep softness of Hutch's voice or feel the immediate rush of relief he always felt when setting his eyes on his partner—both comforting feelings that would be quickly snuffed away by the fear of Hutch's next move.

"Wake up!"

It took Starsky a moment to realize he didn't know the voice addressing him. Whoever was with him now was a stranger. Opening his eyes carefully, one before the other, Starsky was taken aback by the man crouching in front of him. Holding the neck of his t-shirt, his face set with impatient anger was the follower Starsky recognized as Gale.

"Are you real?" Starsky whispered.

"Of course I'm real," Gale scoffed, leaning over to cut the ropes binding Starsky's wrists. "Glad you finally decided to join me. That's a wise decision."

Breathing through clenched teeth, Starsky rubbed at his raw wrists. Briefly, he wondered how opening his eyes could have been wise; though real, Gale appeared as impatient and angry as his other visitors had been. But troubled gaze catching on the growing frayed hole in the knee of his bloody jeans, the thought was forgotten, quickly replaced by confusion as Starsky looked downward at his naked feet.

Just as in the dream, his shoes were gone. And just like the dream, he had no memory of who had taken them. Sighing regretfully, Starsky wondered when it had happened, and which family member's image the voice had used to steal such a beloved piece of his wardrobe.

The shoes were his favorite. White striped blue Adidas reissues, perfect copies of a popular style released in the 70's. He had discovered the shoes after the style had come and gone again—an outdated ad in a year-old magazine at his dentist's office—and though he relentlessly tried to find a pair, he never did. But in the end, he had gotten the coveted shoes; a brand new pair had arrived in the mail one day, an unexpected surprise from Hutch. Though Starsky begged Hutch to tell him where he had finally found the shoes, he never did. And as he rubbed his wrists harder, cringing as his torn skin protested his rough movements, Starsky realized now he would never know how Hutch had pulled off that miracle.

"Where are my shoes?" Starsky asked. "What did you do with them?"

"Nothing," Gale scoffed. "What am I going to do with an ugly worn out pair of tennis shoes?"

"Did one of your friends take them?"

Starsky wasn't quite sure why he was pushing for an answer. In his current situation, missing shoes should have been the least of his worries. But as Gale's dangerous fingertips caressed his head wound, before sliding down to softly graze the stubble on his cheeks, an uncontrollable panic built in his chest and he remained fixated. It was much easier to focus on missing shoes than what horrifying thing would happen next.

"No," Gale said matter-of-factly. "I am the only one."

"What?"

"You and I are alone."

"No..." Starsky's frazzled mind was swimming, his skin crawling beneath Gale's menacing touch, but he knew the words were a lie. Whatever it was that hid in the shadows was still there, watching, waiting, and anticipating a perfect opportunity to show itself again. "I meant... Where are the rest of them? The other blond guys—"

"I am the only one," Gale repeated as his touch moved to Starsky's shoulders before traveling downward.

"What?" Starsky frowned in confusion, struggling against Gale's hands. "No… They were here, I-I saw them. I was out numbered in the house, a-and you and them... You knocked me out and brought me here."

"There are _no_ others!"

Jumping, Starsky pressed his back further into the wall. How could there be no others? That had to be a lie; Starsky was certain he had seen them in the house prior to being knocked out, before he taken to be tortured by the voice in the darkness.

Hands slipped under the hem of his tattered t-shirt and Starsky felt an odd fear as Gale's fingers smoothed across the waistband of his jeans. "What are you doing?" he gasped.

"Removing your clothes."

"Why?"

"You are to be cleansed and prepared."

"I'm feeling pretty cleansed. I think I'll keep my pants on."

Starsky's heart dropped as Gale's scowled. He was unsure if his panic was born from his fatigued fear or exhausted mind, but the sparkle in Gale's eyes was unnerving—a horrible evil gleam that hinted at terrifying intensions—Starsky had seen it before but never directed at him, and overcome by anxiety, he planted his hands at his sides and shimmied out of reach.

"Listen Pal," Starsky said, his voice loud with feigned strength as he protectively looped his index fingers in his belt loops. "There's only one guy who gets to take my pants off and you aren't him!"

Leaning back on his heels, Gale's brows narrowed angrily. "Poor fearful man," he sneered. "Just like the rest of them, you think you make the rules—"

"Brother Gale," Marcus's displeased voice interrupted, echoing through the emptiness of the room.

Snapping his gaze to the bright daylight filtering from the ceiling of the corner of the room, Starsky exhaled in relief. Though he quickly realized it was an odd feeling to associate with his captor, he was thankful for Marcus's presence. Not only had he impeded Gale's intensions, but peering down the hole at the top of the room, with daylight filtering in around him, Marcus had finally given Starsky an opportunity to take a clear look at his surroundings.

The room wasn't what he thought it was. Not nearly as tall as he had assumed, the ceiling was domed, connecting the curved walls of the room the clearance couldn't have been more than ten feet—something he would have known sooner had he ever been allowed to stand up. If he wouldn't have been kept tied up and trapped in the darkness.

Squinting, Starsky returned his attention to the hole in the ceiling. Raising an open palm to protect his eyes from the stinging abrasive light, he gasped as he saw Marcus again. Even with the distance between them, he was haunted by Marcus's dark eyes, sparkling with elation as his face broke into a please smile. It was then Starsky knew: Marcus hadn't come to impede Gale, he had come to watch it unfold.

"I did not," Marcus denied calmly, understanding Starsky's unspoken fear. "And what makes you think I would condone such a violent act?"

Starsky scoffed. He didn't _think_ Marcus would condone Gale's intensions, he knew. Just like he knew the multitudes of violent acts Marcus would excuse before he was through. His dreams had warned him and the voice hiding in the darkness had confirmed it.

"Knowledge is a powerful thing indeed," Marcus said. "You think you know yet you do not. You knew what Hutchinson's intentions were, and yet you did nothing. How is your indifference dissimilar from mine?"

"I wasn't gonna let him hurt anybody," Starsky growled.

"You allowed him to hurt you. Repeatedly, I recall. You martyr yourself for the ones you love—and given your profession, sometimes even for those you do not. You allow small pieces of your body and soul to be chipped away, sacrificed for the benefit of others. What is the difference if you do the same for Gale?"

"It's different," Starsky insisted. He knew it was, even though he couldn't quite think of a convincing explanation why. Sacrificing his own wellbeing while on the job or allowing Hutch the room to make a terrible mistake wasn't the same as ignoring an impending assault. In those situations, Starsky hadn't had the power or foresight to change what happened, and in this one Marcus did. "It's not the same," he repeated firmly.

Marcus grinned as his elated eyes remained on Starsky a moment more. "Brother Gale," he said finally, glancing at where he remained crouched in front of Starsky. "You must come. We have things to attend to."

Gale stood, kicking a water canteen next to the wall. "Wipe your mouth," he ordered. "And drink. The water will cleans you. It will make better prepared for when I return."

"It would be best for you to be mindful of your deepest fears," Marcus said. "Fate does have a way of making them worse, and exploiting them for her own benefit. I am surprised you have not figured that out on your own."

Starsky felt panic build in his chest at the words; a feeling that only intensified as he watched Gale scurry up the ladder leading to where Marcus waited. The heavy steel door was slammed shut, a harsh solid crash that echoed through the empty darkness. Gasping for breath, Starsky struggled to push his panic down, but as long fingernails pressed into his chest he lost all control. Dissolving into sobs as he heard Hutch's familiar voice whisper in the darkness.


	20. Chapter Twenty

**Current Day:**

"It been weeks, David," Doctor Evans prompted softly, her kind eyes narrowing as she smiled encouragingly. "When are you going to start opening up?"

"I went home," Starsky said quietly, his gaze dropping as he picked at the hole in thigh of his jeans. "Seems like that should be enough to convince you I'm doing better."

"Are you doing better?"

Opening his mouth Starsky hesitated, then shrugged. He wanted to say he was but knew he wasn't, and it was all too difficult to think of now. Contrary to the advice of those around him, nothing about his situation had improved with time. His fear of Hutch was overwhelming—irrational—and though their physical proximity had improved, the distance between them had grown to an immeasurable level.

He went too great lengths avoid his partner, he knew that. But Hutch avoided him too. He didn't push—he never pushed anymore—giving Starsky ample space with his uncertainty and fear.

"I want to be getting better," Starsky quietly admitted, his free hand moving to finger the fresh bandage covering his cheek—an irrational attachment Evans had yet to press him on, though he knew she eventually would. The tone of their appointments were changing; she was spending less time trying to ensure his comfort, focusing instead on asking questions he couldn't began to answer. "I want my life back," he added lamely.

"And what do you think is holding you back from that?"

"I don't know."

"You know, David, if you are uncomfortable speaking to me I can refer you to someone else—"

"I don't want to speak to someone else!" Starsky insisted, shocking himself with the honesty of his statement. It wasn't that he didn't want to speak to Doctor Evans specifically, he didn't want to speak to anyone about his fears.

"We are at an impasse. Originally you were hesitant to speak in fear that your experiences would affect your career, but now that doesn't seem to be something you're worried about. In fact, you don't seem particularly concerned with anything, outside of keeping what happened a secret."

"But it isn't a secret," Starsky said, eyeing his patient file sitting on Evan's lap. "Why do you need me to repeat what you already know?"

"I know the injuries you sustained, not how they occurred—"

"But you know enough. And talking about it isn't going to change anything; it isn't going to change the fact that Hutch—"mouth closing abruptly, Starsky turned his gaze to the window, desperately hoping Evans wouldn't press him on what he had almost disclosed or worse, the private details of his domestic relationship with Hutch. Although, regretfully, he realized Evans probably picked up on it by now. After all, they were living together. Under what other circumstances would Starsky have chosen to move back in with a man he remained so afraid of?

"What did Hutch do?"

Starsky bit his lip and shook his head.

"Okay," Evans sighed, uncrossing and re-crossing her legs before tapping the end of her pen against Starsky's file. "But he _did_ do something?"

"No," Starsky lied.

"Was he responsible for your abduction?"

"Yes— _No_ —I-I don't know. W—why would you say that?"

"Shortly before you went missing he was placed on administrative leave, it stands to reason that something happened during this case—"

"Nothing happened."

"Then why did you chose to distance yourself from him after you were found? And why are you so hesitant to talk about him now?"

"Because he doesn't have anything to do with this," Starsky said, his quiet voice shaky but firm. "He doesn't—"hesitating, Starsky squeezed his closed against the pain of a particularly explicit memory.

Laughter of the thing in the darkness punctuated by Hutch's evil grin. _"I'm going to make you scream,"_ Hutch's gritty words came rushing back. _"You like it rough, I know you do, but I'm going to make you wish you were dead."_

How was he supposed to talk about that; how was he supposed to talk about any of it? How some horrifying being had held him in the darkness, disguised itself as Hutch and torn him apart piece-by-piece? No one could possibly understand, not without holding his Hutch responsible for what the thing had done—something Starsky regretfully realized he hadn't been able to refrain from doing himself, and worse didn't know how to stop.

Why did Marcus have to choose Hutch? Out of all the people in the city, he should have fixated on someone else.

"David?" Evans pressed. "Did Hutch do something to you?"

"No." _Yes._

"Are you sure."

"Yes." _No._

Opening his file, Evans moved her pen along the page, adding a few quick paragraphs to her lengthy notes before closing the file and smiling once more. "Tell me about your partner," she said warmly.

"What?" Starsky asked with guarded eyes. How could Evans go from asking leading questions concerning Hutch's involvement in his abduction to causally inquiring for more information about him? "What do you want to know?"

"Tell me what he's like."

"I don't know." Starsky shrugged. "He's Hutch."

"What does that mean?"

Starsky tapped his fingertips on the arms of his chair, unsure of how to respond. His feelings for his partner pre and post Marcus had been confused, irrevocably intertwined by hideous events and lingering fear. He loved Hutch, but didn't trust him. He longed to be close to him, but couldn't look past what had been done.

"I… I don't know what to say."

"Let's try something," Evan said, leaning forward. "I don't want you to think. Take a breath. Relax. Tell me the first thing that comes to your mind when you think of Detective Hutchinson."

Exhaling, Starsky slouched low in his seat and did as he was told. Blinking at the ceiling before closing his eyes and letting out a full body exhale. A perfect image of his partner danced in his vision and he smiled. Tall, blond and protective. _His Hutch_. The man he trusted and had known so well before everything went so terribly wrong.

"David?"

"Strong," Starsky blurted without really thinking about it. But the word felt right. Comforting. And the version of Hutch Starsky was imagining smiled. Full and genuine, it stretched from his mouth all the way to his eyes, and a warmth spread through Starsky's chest.

Hutch was strong. Protective and fierce.

"And?" Evans prompted.

"Loyal." Starsky's eyes snapped open as the word tumbled out, dissolving the warmth and affection loosely tethered to the thought of his partner. Hutch had been loyal but not to him.

"Loyalty sounds fitting. He was the one who saved you, wasn't he?"

"I don't remember," Starsky said thickly. "I don't remember being saved."

Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his kneecaps, rubbing his hands over his face. His fingertips caught on the bandage covering his cheek and he choked on a sob. What had Hutch really done, who _had_ saved him from the thing in the darkness, and who could possibly save him now?

Xx

The ride home was quiet. Hutch stole glances at Starsky as he negotiated through traffic, letting out sporadic muffled sighs and hating his nervousness over conducting a simple conversation with his uncharacteristically silent partner.

"I... uh..." Hutch said awkwardly. "I've been thinking lately about maybe going back to work."

Grunting disinterestedly, Starsky pressed the side of his head against the passenger side window. It felt cold again this skin and sent a shiver of uncertainty down his spine. Hutch had promised not to return to work without him, why was he bringing it up now?

"Do you ever think about going back?" Hutch probed softly.

Starsky grunted once more. He didn't like where the conversation was headed; it wasn't that different from the one he'd just had with Doctor Evans.

Everyone was pushing him to let go and move forward, and baby steps were no longer enough. He felt on display; surrounded by a crowd of people all anxiously awaiting him to revert to who he once was, the only problem was he remained uncertain about what had happened at the Marcus compound and he was equally uncertain of who he had become.

What kind of person had trauma transformed him into, and would he ever get past the tiredness and fear he felt now?

"Please, Starsk."

Hutch's tone was too soft, his plea too telling of the guilt he still struggled with, and Starsky feeling a rush of affinity for his remorseful partner as he looked at him out of the corner of his eyes.

Hutch looked as tired as Starsky felt. Gripping the steering wheel tightly, he kept his gaze focused on the traffic in front of them. Cheeks peppered by the beginnings of a beard, his face looked gaunt—poor diet and too many foot miles on the roads of the city had left his body slimmer than Starsky remembered seeing it before—and the muted hue of his dull blue eyes only hinted at the regret simmering beneath the surface. And though he had known it before, Starsky suddenly realized Hutch was struggling too.

As Evans had said, they were at an impasse. Both he and Hutch remained too afraid of the painful honesty moving forward together promised, and too terrified of the intense uncertainty of letting go for good. Something had to happen, things couldn't continue on; but who was Starsky without Hutch, and who was Hutch without him? With their lives and pain so intertwined, it was difficult to decipher where one started and the other began.

And then there was a larger question: who was Starsky after everything he'd endured, and who had Hutch—fueled by his need to keep secrets and his guilt over what Marcus had done—become in while Starsky was missing and the subsequent time they had spent apart?

"I don't think about work," Starsky admitted softly. "I used to, but now I don't."

"What do you think about?"

"Not much," Starsky lied, feeling a rushing of shame as the words came out. When had things changed; when had Hutch's response become the ones he feared the most? When had he stopped equating his partner with emotions like love and likened him to overwhelming fear?

"Oh."

An odd silence settled between them as they stopped at a red light. Lips forming a straight line, Hutch fought the urge to sigh in desperation, and Starsky turned his attention to the ever present hole in the knee of his jeans.

"What do you think about?"

The question was so soft, Hutch wasn't certain he actually heard it—perhaps it was a hopeful daydream fueled by desperation. He glanced at Starsky as the light turned green and found his partner's troubled gaze holding his own, sad blue eyes that screamed a question he didn't have the courage to ask: what are we holding on to each other for?

"I think about you," Hutch said, his soft honest words coming easy as he returned his attention to the windshield and traffic moving in front of him. He didn't know if he could be truthful while looking at Starsky; careful lies feigning strength always came so much easier than uncertain debilitating truths. "I think about…" he exhaled heavily as his throat tightened, "how far away we are from each other, how afraid I am that I'm going to lose you. And I think about how much I miss the way we were."

Flinching at the tightness in Hutch's voice and watching him fight impending tears, Starsky didn't think as he timidly reached for Hutch's hand on the steering wheel.

"Think about those things too," he whispered, entwining their fingers tightly together and resting their hands on the console between the seats. "I don't know how to fix this, Hutch, but I want to… Don't give up on me—"

"I'll never give up on you."

"Then don't move on without me," Starsky said moments later, his voice wavering as tears filled his eyes. "You promised you'd wait for me, that we'd go back to work together. Please don't stop waiting—"

"I'll never stop waiting for you," Hutch said thickly. " _Never._ But I am trying so _fucking_ hard to keeps us together, Starsk, and I..." he hesitated, silently berating himself for the words he had yet to say. "I know you're hurting, and I know you're scared, but I _really_ need you to start trying too."

Tears trickling down his cheeks, Starsky felt too overwhelmed to reply, but squeezing tightly, he held Hutch's hand long after they returned home.

Xx

 **Months Prior:**

Starsky couldn't remember a time before had started screaming.

Voice painfully hoarse, his esophagus felt cut open. As though he had been forced to swallow razor blades or shards of glass. Tiny objects that traveled slow enough to leave embedded cuts, but quick enough to clear his throat, preventing him from choking. The pain was debilitating, and laying near naked on his back in the darkness, tears fell readily from his eyes, trailing down his cheeks as he clawed at the pain radiating down his neck. His fingernails pulled at his skin, scratching deeply and leaving puckered pink lines behind. The pain was unbearable as he writhed on the floor, kicking the balls of his feet frantically against the floor. Sharp jots of pain shot through his feet, up his legs before settling into his hips, in the space just above the waistband of his boxer shorts.

His clothes were gone, disappearing in the same manner as his shoes, and Starsky had no memory of what had happened to leave him boxer short clad and in agonizing pain. He had fallen asleep and woken in nightmare, though his dreams hadn't been much better. Still tortured by the reoccurring scene in the farmhouse where he had walked calmly through the hallway only to hesitate on the stairwell too paralyzed by the wrongness of what awaited below to take another step.

If his mind had been clearer he would have wondered when the dream would finally become a reality—when Marcus would finally collect and force him to present himself to Hutch for slaughter—or perhaps he would strategize an escape. But too captivated by his fear for the thing hiding in the darkness, too paralyzed by pain, he was helpless to think about anything beyond his current situation.

"Please…" Starsky pleaded to the darkness, his fingernails tearing at his skin. "Stop… it… _Please."_

The pain ebbed, and for a fraction of a second Starsky felt a rush of exhausted relief. But the feeling didn't last and his face contorted with agony as the tremendous pain returned. His cracking screams echoed, blending seamlessly with the deep grinding laugher emanating from the darkest corner of the room.

Xx

"This is _impossible_!"

Placing his hands on his head, Hutch turned in place, his eyes scanning the Marcus Compound in disbelief. Standing beside him, Huggy remained silent as his troubled gaze looked between their surroundings and his panicked friend.

"This looks _nothing_ like it did before!" Hutch continued insistently. "I-I don't _understand_ how this can be."

The twin industrial buildings were gone, as where the lush fruit and nut trees that had stretched into horizon. The land was dry and desolate, peppered with sporadic tumbleweeds stuck among rocks of varying sizes. The old farmhouse had remained, but it had changed too. With peeling paint and decayed siding, it was decrepit. The windows were covered, boarded up by gray rotted two-by-fours, and past the crumbling porch stairs the decayed wood of the front door stood was slightly ajar, faintly swaying by some unseen force.

Heart pounding in his ears, Hutch fell to his knees, gasping for breath as helplessness threatened to overwhelm him. This couldn't be. It was impossible. He had visited Marcus in this house—met with him multiple times—while it had looked rough, it had never looked abandoned.

"What's going on?" Hutch asked.

"Starsky said he told you the stories—"

" _Fuck_ the stories!" Hutch pointed his index finger helplessly at the home and felt a rush of shameful regret as his eyes caught the bloodstains marking his fingertips. "I've been in that house, Huggy," he continued, tearing his gaze from his fingertips he settled it on the house. "Starsky has too. It didn't look like this. It _never_ looked like this."

"Starsky said he told you the stories," Huggy repeated softly, his haunted eyes locked on the porch. "I guess he left out the worst parts. Simon Marcus isn't a sketchy leader who entraps people in his cult, Hutch. Some people say he isn't a man at all. There's a reason nobody comes out here. Why people don't talk about this place or the mess with whatever is hiding here."

"What?" Hutch's chest heaved with panic. "What are you talking about?"

Mouth opening to continue, Huggy's face contorted as his fearful gaze settled on something beyond the house.

"What?"

"They're watching us," Huggy whispered, pointing at a pair of men in the distance.

"Who?" Glancing between Huggy and the empty land Hutch stood. "Who?" he demanded frantically. Grasping his upper arms, he shook Huggy slightly as combination of dread and helplessness settled in his heart. "Huggy, there's nobody there!"

"How can you not see them?" Huggy said insistently, pulling himself out of Hutch grasp. "There right there!"

But looking in the distance, Hutch saw nothing.

" _Christ_ ," Huggy whispered, oblivious to Hutch's inability to see the men. "Is that really him?

"Who?!"

" _Fuck_ , Hutch, how can you not see them? There's a whole group of men over there. Where did they all come from…?" Mouth hanging open, Huggy's eyes widened as he took a step back.

"What is it? What do you see?"

"They…" Huggy hedged, his haunted eyes set on the distance. "Starsky, they all look like Starsky."

"Where is Starsky?" Hutch shouted, too fixated in his partner to comprehend anything else.

"He's not with them." Grasping Hutch's shirtsleeve, Huggy pulled his arm in the direction of their car. "Come on, Hutch," he whispered, his voice wavering with uncertain fear. "Let's go."

"I'm not leaving," Hutch said, pulling his arm from Huggy's grasp. "Not now." He shook his head forcefully, punctuating his statements. "Not without Starsky."

"Look man, he's not with them. And they're getting closer and we should be retreating—"

"Retreating?"

"Look," Huggy said, grasping Hutch firmly by the shoulders. "I know you want to find Starsky, I do too, but now is not the time, okay?! Right now I'd rather not be facing off with a group of dubious dudes you can't see!"

Looking between the empty land and Huggy's frantic expression, Hutch struggled with what to do. He understood Huggy's fear but too panicked by Starsky's absence he couldn't comply.

"Can't do it, Hug," he said, pulling himself from Huggy's grasp. "This is my fault. Starsky is here because of me—"

"Hutch, you don't know that he's here!"

"I do!" Hutch screamed. "I brought him here!" his voice raised an octave as he held his bloodstained hands suspended in the air. "I-I thought it was dream, but I _remember_ now. After drinking with you he did come home. I… I hit him—knocked him out—and I brought him here."

"Hutch."

"I can't leave, Hug. Not without Starsky. I'm going to find him; I _won't_ leave him here alone."

Not waiting for an answer, Hutch turned, striding purposefully toward the abandoned house. Groaning, Huggy lingered in place for a moment; his brain screamed that he should grab Hutch and leave the property while his pounding heart confirmed what he already knew. This was a horrible nightmare—a terrifying mess—but like Hutch couldn't leave Starsky, he wouldn't leave Hutch—he wouldn't abandon him when he needed someone the most.

Taking one last look in the direction of the men, Huggy's eyes widened in shock. The vast field was empty, the men had disappeared.

Xx

Starsky groaned as rough hands grasped him, pulling him from where he lay on the floor and slamming him firmly against the wall. The texture of the wall was biting; it pulled and scratched his naked back, but despite the pain, he remained determined not to open his eyes. Exhausted from screaming, his voice had long left him, and having not heard anyone enter the bunker, Starsky was not anxious to see whose form the thing in the darkness had chosen to torment him with.

"Open your eyes."

Face crumbling, Starsky almost sobbed as he heard Hutch's instruction, his voice deep with impatient displeasure. No, he silently screamed. Not again. He couldn't handle another terrifying encounter with this version of his partner. This Hutch was a thing of nightmares, and while he knew there was fundamental difference between his Hutch and the one born from the thing in the darkness, Starsky was having trouble distinguishing between the two. And dancing on tiptoes as Hutch's palms held him firmly against the wall, Starsky remained obstinately determined not to open his eyes.

"Starsky," Hutch growled, pressing him further against the wall. He smirked in a pleased fashion as he heard Starsky's whimper of distress, then adjusting this footing and his hands, he increased the pressure. "Open your eyes," he instructed again, pressing harder with each word. He smiled as he felt the ribs crack and splinter, finally giving under the pressure, then laughed as Starsky screamed in pain.

Squeezing his eyes shut tightly, Starsky's fought for shallowed breaths. Chest inflamed, agony reverberated through his body; beginning at his newly broken ribs and traveling down his spine to the tips of his toes, it was unlike anything he had ever felt before. No previous injuries had filled him with such debilitating pain, and overcome by dizziness Starsky briefly wondered how Hutch was strong enough to keep him pinned to the wall in such a threatening manner.

"Open your eyes," Hutch craned his head, his mouth inches from Starsky's ear, "or I'll do it again."

Fighting to retain consciousness, Starsky struggled with his resolve—wondering if he could sustain another round of rib crushing or even if he had any left to break—maybe if he opened his eyes, Hutch would let him lay on the floor, something that promised to be more comfortable than being forcefully pinned to the wall.

" _Starsky_ ," Hutch warned, the pressure from his palms increasing.

Choking on a sob as another wave of unbearable pain traveled through his body, Starsky opened his eyes. And staring into Hutch's eyes, the familiar blue depths that had comforted him so often over the years, Starsky felt nothing but dread.

"See how easy that was?" Hutch said, his mouth curling in a sinister smile. "If you would have done that in the first place then none of this would have had to happen. Why do you always do that, Baby? Why can't you just do what you're told?"

"I—"Starsky gasped. "Please... leave me alone. I-I can't," voice cracking his face crumpled in desperation. "I can't take anymore—"

"Shhhhh," Hutch soothed deeply, eyeing Starsky's lips needfully. "You think you're so tough, but you're not. You're not nearly as strong as you claim to be. I could kill you right now. Shatter your bones and grind you to dust—"

"Please," Starsky croaked, the intensity of his pain momentarily forgotten—pushed away by the unnerving familiarity of his Hutch's intense stare.

No, not his Hutch, Starsky thought madly. They weren't the same. His Hutch was loving—gentle—and this one was a monster. Saying torturous things and laughing at his pain, deep down Starsky knew this Hutch was nothing like the man he knew. And yet, it was knowledge he had begun struggling to hold on to. In some ways this Hutch was exactly same as his Hutch, his intensity coupled with a potential to turn dark, same vivid eyes, and beautiful smile. But how could the thing in the darkness have mirrored such an intimate detail, presenting Starsky with nightmarish version of his partner complete with the same haunting set of bedroom eyes?

" _Please."_

"Please," Hutch mocked with an evil grin. "I won't make you beg, baby; I'll give you would you wouldn't take from Gale."

"No," Starsky protested, his stomach dropping as he struggled to push Hutch away. But his body was too fatigued, too wounded to fight back and Starsky remained paralyzed under Hutch's piercing stare, too fixated on his evil smile and the impossibly of what was about to happen.

"You have blood on your hands," Hutch grinned, his fingers hovering inches from Starsky's neck as he dipped his head to whisper in Starsky's ear, "Where has your fight gone now—your insistence not to be touched. Your vigorous anger at the prospect? Did you use it all up on Gale?"

Gale? Despite his fear, Starsky frowned. Why was Hutch bringing up Gale; what could his words possibly mean?"

 _"We had a moment in the darkness,"_ Hutch's mouth moved but his deep grinding tone sounded foreign as the words came from his mouth. Though Starsky's eyes widened as he recognized voice of the thing that hid in the darkness, he felt a rush of grateful relief at the subtle reminder that wasn't his Hutch, it was something else.

 _"You and I, we shared something,"_ Hutch's mouth moved again, _"not completely unlike what we're going to share now."_

Turning his head, Starsky pressed the side of his cheek to the wall and closed his eyes, but the visions that assaulted him were enough to make them snap open again. Gale's look of sinister triumph as he returned, advancing from the darkness; the soreness of his hands and the dark bruising of his knuckles, injuries obtained from defending himself—a lingering pain easily silenced, forgotten by the pain in his ribcage and the fear in his heart.

"So you do remember," Hutch grinned, his voice returning to its proper tone. "I was worried you had forgotten. And since I helped you, it is time to give me what I will take anyway."

Starsky opened his mouth to reply but choked on as scream as his eyes watered under the pain of Hutch's touch. His hands where ice cold yet somehow they burned Starsky's skin, leaving behind thick pink swelling lines up and down his tanned chest. Throbbing of his ribs suddenly forgotten, Starsky cringed as searing agony engulfed him. He felt as though he was being lit on fire and his tender skin sizzled beneath Hutch's fingertips. Biting his bottom lip, he was determined not to scream; he wouldn't give Hutch the satisfaction of such a thing. But it was hard not to let a sound escape as his protesting skin sizzled beneath Hutch's touch.

The pain was unimaginable; it was as though he was slowly being consumed by fire.

"You can't stop me," Hutch whispered dangerously, and Starsky tasted blood as his hand dropped lower, settling on his hips before reaching below. "You can't ever stop me; you should have learned that long before now."

And as Hutch's fingers began touching his most intimate of places, Starsky gave way to deep sobbing screams that echoed through the darkness.

Xx

Entering the farmhouse was like walking into a dream.

"Whoa," Huggy said, lingering in the foyer as he looked between the decrepit door and the interior of the house. It was unlike anything he had ever seen.

Though the curtains were drawn, the lamps in the hallway burned brightly, illuminating the entries to the living area and kitchen and the tall dark oak staircase at the end of the hall. The decor looked expensive, pale oak tables, green velvet chairs, and perfectly preserved patterned wallpaper clung to the walls, complimented by golden French Swept picture frames housing haunting images of numerous unsmiling men. The house looked like a museum exhibit but it was real, and the realization filled Huggy with an overwhelming sense of dread.

Something terrible had happened here, and suddenly he was certain that there were still countless horrible things yet to come.

"This is impossible," Huggy said, almost choking on the thickness of the air. "How can it look so new and old at the same time? Has it always looked like this?"

"No," Hutch said quietly, the staircase groaning under his weight. "It changed too."

"Where are you going?"

"Shhhh." Stopping at the top of the stairs, Hutch gripped the railing and tilted his head. "Can you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"Shhhh!"

Huggy frowned as the house remained silent. Overwhelmed by nervousness, he wondered if somehow Hutch was able to hear things he couldn't. Perhaps, his suspicious relationship with Marcus—the horrible influence the man seemed to have over him—impacted what he was able to see and hear. But then he heard it, scratchy and faint, the slightest hint of a record playing behind a closed door.

 _"...see the pyramids along the Nile, watch the sunrise on a tropic isle, just remember darlin' all the while, you belong to me…"*_

"Where is it coming from?" Huggy asked.

"I can't tell. It sounds far. Attic maybe?"

 _"…I'll be so alone without you, maybe you'll be lonesome too, and blue…"*_

"Hutch," Huggy breathed, his anxiety growing with each line of the song.

Bounding up the stairs as quietly as he could, he clutched Hutch's arm firmly and encouraged him to turn around. He wasn't certain what he expected to see in Hutch's eyes—another silent admission of guilt or a familiar dullness that indicated he was traveling upstairs by someone else's volition; perhaps the crowd outside had been an unheeded warning and now Marcus was puppeteering Hutch's movement, leading them toward some preventable fate.

 _"...see the jungle when it's wet with rain, just remember 'til you're home again, you belong to me…"*_

"What?" Hutch said, his crisp eyes flickering with mild annoyance as he held Huggy's questioning gaze.

"Nothing."

"What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing," Huggy lied, his stomach flipping as his hand dropped to hang loosely at his side. Hutch's eyes looked normal, but why did he feel so overcome by dread?

"It's this place," Hutch said knowingly, noting Huggy's nervous body language and apprehensive expression. "Starsky felt the same way you do, inexplicably fearful. He never liked being here."

"What do you feel?"

"Me?" Hutch asked, taking purposeful steps down the dimly lit hallway. "I don't feel anything," he added moments later, sticking his head in the doorway of an empty bedroom.

"Nothing?" Huggy whispered, his voice too low to hear. The idea was preposterous; how could Hutch feel nothing while he was so petrified?

Halfway down the hallway the music stopped, and preoccupied by the sudden silence Huggy found himself running into Hutch's rigid back.

"Sorry," he said regretfully, clinging to Hutch's arm.

"Huggy," Hutch said, his index finger indicating the fresh red sheen of liquid oozing from underneath the closed attic door.

"Don't tell me that's what I think it is."

"Blood."

"Too much blood," Huggy corrected as he stood frozen in place, watching Hutch move silently toward the door. If he wasn't so preoccupied with his crippling fear, he would have wondered how Hutch was able to maintain his composure—how he was able to move across the room to investigate, unhindered by the slightest hesitation.

Griping the doorknob tightly, Hutch squinted at the blood at his feet. Untouched it was fresh, but the large crimson puddle indicated it had been pooling for some time. It was too much, as Huggy had said, a puddle that large meant horrible things for whomever had lost it. Taking a breath he began to turn the doorknob, but then he heard it: a low growl from the other side of the door.

"What's wrong?" Huggy whispered.

Pressing his ear to the door, Hutch closed his eyes and listened. Deep and threatening, the growling intensified. Almost feral, it was enough to make him hesitate opening the door. What would he find waiting for him if he did?

"Hutch?" Huggy said, his voice soft, insistent, and close.

Opening his eyes and turning, Hutch found him standing inches away, his wide eyes sparkling with uncertainty.

"Did you hear that?" Hutch asked.

"What is it?"

"I don't know."

The doorknob protested as Hutch finally turned it, filling the hall with an elongated creaking. The noise was enough to silence the growling, and the only sound Huggy heard as Hutch slowly opened the door was the pounding of his heart.

The stairway leading to the attic was painfully dark; squinting their eyes Hutch and Huggy struggled to distinguish anything inside.

"I don't see anything—"

Hutch was silenced by a deep, violent warning growl as something sprung from the darkness and knocked him off his feet. Teeth clenching his throat, he gasped, struggling against the heavy weight settling on his chest as growling filled his ears. Grasping helplessly at his assailant, Hutch was unable to get a good grip and his fingertips glided helplessly through blood matted hair. It was only when teeth broke through his skin that it occurred to him who they could belong to and how horrible of situation it truly was. Then suddenly, the teeth were pulled from his neck and Hutch let out a yelp of pain as the weight left his body.

" _Jesus!_ " Huggy swore struggling against the animal he held to his chest. " _Fuck_ , Hutch are you gonna help me or what?!"

Frantically standing, Hutch almost sobbed at what he saw. Snarling dangerously as he fought Huggy's grasp was Lucky. Muzzle to tail he was soaked, dripping in fresh warm blood.

TBC

Author Note: The song lyrics aren't mine. The song is "You Belong to Me", and a-billion-and-one people have covered it. I was going for the original Patsy Cline vinyl version circa 1952.


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

**Prior Months:**

"What do you see in the darkness?" Marcus asked, his eyes sparkling with curious joy as he peered down at Starsky.

Shaking his head numbly, Starsky couldn't bring himself to reply. Head pressed against the wall, his body was swollen and dark, charred with handprints as he lay naked in a pool of his own blood. He wanted to move but couldn't; wanted to be angry over Marcus's delighted smile but wasn't. Marcus's presence was oddly comforting; he had soothed his anxiety and screaming pain of Starsky's battered body from the moment he had suddenly appeared, daylight filtering around him as he stood towering above at the entry of the bunker. And Marcus had done something else: his presence had chased the thing back to the darkness of the corner—he prevented Hutch from assaulting Starsky again.

"Does she show herself to you?" Marcus asked, fondly eyeing the darkest corner of the room.

"Who?" Starsky asked, his confused mind thick with fevered questions. Why was Marcus's presence comforting, and why didn't he feel a hint of fear or even shame laying naked before him now?

"Fate," Marcus said simply. Smiling growing, he strode purposefully to the corner. Whispering inaudible sentences as he glanced between the empty space and where Starsky lay hopelessly paralyzed on the ground. "Did Gale return for you?" he asked, looking at Starsky's nakedness inquisitively, the burned handprints marring his body, traveling the length of his arms, his chest and down his hips and thighs. "Or did someone else come to take what was theirs?"

Grimacing, Starsky fought a wave of agitation as he fought to recall the memory of Gale's return. Blurred images raced through his mind; fragmented pieces of dreams and memories that had become a fused cluster too complicated to decipher.

But the emotions had remained.

Pain, fear, dread, and hope, all feelings he readily remembered. The pain inflicted by the thing in the darkness, the fear and dread enveloping him, and hope born from Marcus's presence. The only thing that could ease the agony rushing through Starsky's body and save him from the ever-present terror that threatened to overwhelm him.

"Either you do not remember much of what has happened or your stubbornness to avoid the truth has prevailed." Marcus said disappointedly. "I do believe it is the latter."

Choking on groan, Starsky lifted his burned covered arms to hide his face as he shook his head wildly. Marcus was wrong nothing had happened with Gale. Subsequent to his original appearance, Gale never returned.

"But you did drink the water he left," Marcus said matter-of-factly. "Fate has told me you did. Quenching your thirst it filled you with panic and unbearable pain." Tilting his head toward the darkness, he grinned. "Fate was kind to you then, she allowed you seek respite in her darkness when things became too much—"

"No," Starsky denied. Marcus was lying. Wasn't he?

"What purpose would my lies serve?"

"You…" Starsky paused, overcome by the confused images lingering in the back of his head.

Tired and weak he had given into his thirst, drinking the water Gale had left behind in a quick series of desperate gulps. The water was refreshing, making him feel momentarily better before turning mean. A feeling parallel to a burning rage of fire had engulfed him, rising from the pit of his stomach before settling into this throat where it lingered with cutting pain.

Holding his fingertips in front of his face, Starsky cringed. His hands were dirty; covered in grime and blood, swollen and disguised by the reddened skin and blistered by the Hutch's touch. But the layers of bloody skin tucked under his fingernails had been his doing; he had scratched his neck raw as the unseen thing in the darkness laughed over his terror and pain. But after a while he had passed out—hadn't he? He was certain at some point he had given into the peace of unconsciousness.

But that was after, a tiny bothersome voice whispered in the back of his head. After Gale had finally returned; after Hutch had come to take what Starsky wouldn't give Gale. It couldn't be, Starsky though wildly. And pressing his head firmly against the wall, he took a deep breath and forced himself to remember what had happened in the darkness.

The agony brought on by the water had left him mentally and physically drained. The water, though debilitating, had quenched his thirst but he had gone days without food. And with his body aching with weakness, he struggled with lucidity, frantically trying to hold on to what slivers of sanity he had left—something he realized was only worsening with time.

What was real and what was nothing more than a dream? He wasn't sure anymore, and the question was enough provoke his heart into a frantic flutter. He didn't want to be crazy, he thought madly. There were so many other unsavory things he chose over that.

"You do fear being seen as unstable," Marcus sneered. "Almost as much as Hutchinson fears his truth. You are afraid of repeating your mother's mistakes, but Hutchinson has already duplicated his father's. Secrecy, denying the remaining pain of long buried truth, Hutchinson has done to you what his father did to him."

Closing his eyes Starsky remained quiet. He was too tired to speak. Too calmed by Marcus to disagree. Somewhere in the back of his mind he realized it was an odd feeling to attach to such a menacing man; placidity was feeling better associated with someone else. Someone like Hutch, Starsky thought regretfully but immediately he knew that somehow his feelings associated with his partner had been irrevocably changed.

"She did not show herself to you," Marcus said in pleased tone. "She showed you someone else."

"No," Starsky denied, his quiet voice catching.

"Yes, she did. She showed you the truest nature of the ones you love the most," holding up his hand, Marcus flicked his fingers as he continued, "Mother, Aunt, Uncle, and the one you love the most. Tell me, undisturbed by his secrets what truths did Hutchinson finally tell you?"

"It wasn't him."

"It was."

"No."

The thing in the darkness wasn't Hutch, it couldn't be. His Hutch wouldn't never say the cruel biting things the other Hutch had—he would never treat him so contemptuously—his Hutch would never use his strength to hurt him. He would never break his ribs or make him bleed, and he never would have violently forced himself upon Starsky—he wouldn't have ignored his tortured screams of pain.

"I told you to be mindful of your fears," Marcus said, his voice almost regretful as he watched twin tears trail streak Starsky's swollen blood-dried cheeks. "Fate will always make them worse. You could have given Gale what he wanted and been spared the pain of something truly horrible."

"It w-wasn't him."

"It was," Marcus said. "Remember how you screamed, first as his fingertips burned your skin, and later as his hands left imprints on your soul."

"No."

Holding his hands up defensively, Starsky flinched as Marcus pulled him off the floor. His body protested the movement, enveloping his chest in fiery pain and sending jolts of painful spasms down his lower back and beyond. Captive to protesting muscles, his legs moved involuntarily, abruptly jerking his body and intensifying his pain. Tears streaming down his cheeks, a series of pain grunts and groans escaped him before Marcus finished carefully arranging him to sit feet beyond where he had been before—away from the freshly bloodstained pavement that told the secret of what Hutch had really done.

It was so much blood, Starsky thought absently. Too much blood; he had torn before but never like this. Of course he had never been touched like that; not with razor-sharp fingertips that burned his skin or violent forcefulness that left his body quaking in agony.

"You must never lay down, when you can sit," Marcus said, wiping a cool cloth over Starsky's forehead and shoulders. "And you must never take drinks from strangers. You of all people should have known better than to drink the water gifted by Gale."

"I didn't have a choice."

"You _always_ have a choice. I would have given you water if you asked."

Mind swimming with pain, Starsky struggled to accept the words; it didn't seem probable Marcus would have been so accommodating—of course it didn't seem likely he would take time to clean him up either, Starsky thought immediately. But Marcus's careful motions, the warmth of the wet cloth against his sore skin, only served as confirmation of the man's statement. Somewhere in the back of his head, Starsky realized that the scrubbing of his wounds should have hurt but didn't. Marcus's presence was calming; his touch was quickly soothing his pain away. And watching Marcus's actions wide-eyed, Starsky inhaled sharply as he struggled understand what he was seeing. First wiping Starsky's skin clean, Marcus hoovered his palm over his puckered burns momentarily before the skin contracted, its redness calming as it returned to its natural tanned hue—Marcus was healing him.

"Tell me why you killed Brother Gale."

" _What?_ " Starsky whispered, as confused by the question as he was about how Marcus had made his burns disappear.

"Yes, you did," Marcus said resolutely, nodding at the darkest corner of the room. "Fate told me what occurred."

Staring dumbly at the floor, Starsky cringed as he was assaulted with Hutch's previous words: _You have blood on your hands. Where has your fight gone now—your insistence not to be touched? Your vigorous anger at the prospect? Did you use it all up on Gale?_

"No!"

Covering his ears, Starsky shut his eyes as he frantically struggled to ignore the memory. While he succeeded in suppressing Hutch's taunting, a cluster of other memories came rushing back, details of moments too horrible to think about. The icy feeling of Hutch's breath on his skin, contradicting with the smell of burning flesh permeating the air as Hutch's fingers singed and burned, poke and prodded, but when he had finally taken Starsky, it had been the worst pain he'd ever known in his life. It didn't matter what had been done to Gale because what Hutch had done was so much worse.

"No," Starsky whispered, his voice thick as he struggled to reject the truth. It wasn't Hutch; it hadn't been. Hutch loved him deeply; he never would have hurt him like that.

"But he did," Marcus assured. "Just as you killed Gale, just after you drank the water. He emerged from the darkness intent on finishing what he began—"

"No!"

"Just as you should have been mindful of your fear, he should have been mindful of your warning. He returned and you viciously killed him with your bare hands—"

"No!" Starsky screamed as the memory came back full-force.

Gale beneath him, struggling against him and fighting for breath. Blood filled his bulging eyes as Starsky's wrapped his hands around his throat. Gale had gagged seconds before Starsky crushed his windpipe, minutes before Starsky lost all control and violently broken Gale's neck.

"I didn't do that," Starsky insisted, though he was certain he had.

"You call yourself a rescuer; a servant of the law, yet you chose to kill Gale. It was self-defense," Marcus tilted his head, "that is true, but you chose to end his life. He would have died eventually, fate would have seen to that. But he was no longer a threat, and you _chose_ the moment he took his last breath."

"No," Starsky whispered his heart dropping as he absorbed the truth of Marcus's words.

Captive to his terrified anger, he had injured Gale—incapacitated him so he wasn't a threat—and then he had killed him. With his bare hands Starsky had killed him. And for a moment, as Gale lay gurgling on his blood, Starsky had felt an unreasonable amount of joy. He had taken pleasure in Gale's pain, it had provided respite from the uncertainty of the darkness, and made him feel dominating, powerful, and strong.

"Perhaps, you are not as rational as you would like to think," Marcus said, lips curling into a satisfied smile. "That is okay. Hutchinson is not as strong as he likes to think he is. In some ways you are a perfect pair. Everyone has a bit of darkness inside; Hutchinson is aware of his, there is a part of himself he will always struggle to contain."

"That's a lie," Starsky whispered, voice unconvincing. "All of it—"

"Is it?"

Flinching as Marcus's fingers dropped to his more sensitive areas, Starsky cowered. All thoughts of Gale and Hutch, what he had endured and what he had done—vanished in a moment—erased by the terror rushing through him at the prospect that Marcus had come have him as well.

"I do not entertain thoughts such as those," Marcus chastised, moving the wet cloth to cleanse Starsky's broken and raw skin.

"But you encouraged it," Starsky said numbly, thoughts of Gale and Hutch swirling in his head as Marcus scrubbed the dried blood caking the base of his thighs. "You knew what Gale wanted from me. You stopped him on purpose the first time..." His eyes widened as he struggled to reason Marcus's actions. "…You knew he would come back for me… and you… you allowed him to do that too…"

"I did."

"Why?"

"I wanted to see what would happen. You allowed Hutchinson to break your body, to violently ravage your soul; I wanted to see if you would allow Gale the same permissions—"

"I never gave permission, to either of them."

"You stopped Gale while you allowed Hutchinson to take what he wanted; just as you always succumb to his will—"

"I didn't."

"You did."

Marcus's firm statement echoed through the bunker, and Starsky felt numb shock envelope him as Marcus procured a blanket from seemingly nowhere. What was he suggesting? That he had a _chosen_ for Hutch to assault him?

"You always have a choice," Marcus affirmed, wrapping the blanket carefully around Starsky's shoulders, hiding his injuries and nakedness form the damp coldness of the room.

Face set with confusion, Starsky stared at him. Why would Marcus go to such lengths to comfort him? Why would he take time to heal his wounds and soothe his pain? Why would the man bothering speaking to him at all?

"I do not take pleasure in the pain of others," Marcus smiled, "at least not nearly as much as all those silly stories would have you believe."

"What do you take pleasure in?"

Marcus looked thoughtful. "Honesty," he said after a moment. "And fulfillment of ones truest self."

"Is that why you brought me here?" Starsky snorted softly, his fingers clenching the blanket tightly. "To fulfill something?"

"For you? No," Marcus said, a hint of regret in his tone. Reaching out he cupped Starsky's cheek, moving his thumb tenderly against the dark stubble covering his chin. "I'm afraid this was never about you—"

"It was always about him," Starsky said knowingly, his voice tight with tears. "Why did you chose Hutch? Why does it want him so bad?"

"He chose himself. It was his fear that led him to me, his insecurities and brokenness that made him easy for fate to exploit."

"But Hutch is strong," Starsky protested, moving his cheek from Marcus's grasp. "You don't know him. He isn't weak or broken—"

"His secrets make him weak. His inability to accept his pain or his past make him a broken man—a lesser version of who he was meant to be. Though he tries to feign otherwise, you know it is the truth."

"I know," Starsky whispered sadly, his mind suddenly too exhausted do anything but accept the truth of Marcus's words. "He was so afraid of me finding out about it, wasn't he?"

"Of what?"

"Of the knowledge you held over his head. The things you used to manipulate him."

"He was." Marcus smiled, pleasantly pleased with Starsky's ability to finally deduce—and accept—what had sparked his invisible hold on Hutch.

"Well, in that case it shouldn't count," Starsky insisted, burrowing into the warmth of the blanket.

"Why?"

"Because I already know all of his secrets. He never told me, but I know."

A memory sprung readily to Starsky's mind; the anger and frustration he felt toward Hutch when his partner refused to allow him to attend Richard Hutchinson's funeral, resulting in an evening full of too many beers and a covert ransacking of their house. He hadn't expected to find anything—not really—but his heart had been in his throat, his hands moving by their own violation, as he came upon the faded file box, cleverly disguised, hidden in the back of the closet in their spare bedroom. Medical files, all dated the summer Hutch would have been seven-years-old; copies of psychiatric reports, beginning the same summer and continuing for years. But the name in the records had been confusing, not Kenneth Hutchinson but Cameron Smith, and Starsky had been burdened by questions of why Hutch would keep or hide medical records belonging to someone else.

"The records do belong to him," Marcus assured. "You know it now, as you did then."

And Starsky did know; his heart ached as he struggled to forget the details burned into his memory. A seven-year-old little boy should never have to have endured such things, he thought sadly, nor should a grown man live in fear of someone finding out.

"And do you love him in spite of his secrets?" Marcus asked. "The ones he deliberately chose never to entrust to you?"

"Of course," Starsky whispered firmly. "I promised to love him forever. Through better and worse, though..." he paused, eyes setting on the darkest corner of the room as anxiety built in his chest. Was Hutch listening to them; and what could punishment for speaking of carefully buried secrets possible be? "This is definitely worse," he added in a convert whisper.

"I thought the version of your partner which hides in the shadows was not really him."

"It's not," Starsky said, though his tone was firm he found himself suddenly uncertain. Maybe it was Hutch after all, fueled by fury-laced shame over long passed trauma no one could change now. Looking at Marcus, he frowned nervously. "Is it?"

"It is. Fate is showing you Hutchinson's truest form. It is the pain and anger he has tried hard to conceal. I assure you, even if Hutchinson could save you, he would not. His promises are empty; his love is contrived. He will say and do anything to get you where he wants you. And in the end, it will mean nothing. You will suffer for his scars, the things you know yet pretend to be unaware of, and captive to what happened, what will happen here and the things he will do once I'm gone, he will hold on to you tightly. He will do anything to make you stay."

Xx

"I found my _fucking_ dog on his property, Captain!" Hutch shouted, voice cracking with strain as he towered over Dobey's desk.

Seated in a plush chair near the door, Huggy's gaze dropped to the carpet as he silently awaited the proper opportunity to chime in. Though with Hutch's flaring temper and Dobey's palpable exasperation, he realized the proper time interject may never present itself.

They shouldn't have come here, Huggy thought regretfully. And if it wouldn't have been for his insistence, the stubborn fear he had felt when faced with the idea of returning to the Marcus compound, Hutch wouldn't have sought Dobey out at all.

Lucky had been captured and taken to his regular veterinarian, where he still remained. Various blood tests and x-rays had been completed on the heavily sedated dog, but nothing could be found wrong with the overly agitated Dalmatian. When the veterinarian had weakly suggested that he had contracted rabies—due to his unexplainable violent aggressive behavior—Huggy was certain Hutch would to burst into tears. But he didn't, instead begging the veterinarian to allow Lucky to be kept for observation instead of immediately employing a more heart wrenching option. She conceded, but Huggy supposed it had more to do with the dog's blood soaked fur than Hutch's tearful insistence. How Lucky had come to be uninjured, yet covered in blood was anyone's guess, but he knew that neither he nor Hutch would ever forget the accusation in veterinarian's eyes, the unspoken question of how they could have allowed sweet even-tempered Lucky to become so traumatized.

"That doesn't prove anything!" Dobey bellowed.

"How can you say that?"

"Hutch," Dobey sighed, pinching at the bridge of his nose. "I'm not…I _cannot_ sit here and listen to you carry on about this. As I told you yesterday, I spoke to Starsky; he is fine, worried about you but fine—"

"That's _impossible_!"

Huggy jumped at Hutch's thundering statement, but Dobey's words left him reeling in disbelief. When had the large man spoken to Starsky and if he had made contact with his superior why wouldn't Starsky have contacted Hutch? The behavior was incredibly out of character, leaving Huggy as unsettled as he had been in the odd farmhouse on Marcus's property.

It was obvious how wrong the situation was; Starsky had been missing for days, Lucky found displaying feral behavior and covered in blood that wasn't his own, and despite their efforts, neither Huggy nor Hutch had been able to find the source of the blood. No abandoned corpse in the attic or marred creature hidden somewhere else in the home waiting to be found to provide a reasonable explanation for the blood.

It didn't makes sense, not a bit of it; his mind crippled by questions, Huggy looked at Dobey to alleviate his worry—to finally discover some maddening connection that would make all the pieces fall into place—but his worry only increased. Dobey's rigid obstinateness to avoid drawing attention to Starsky's absence was confusing. There was an oddness to the Captain's dark eyes, a mechanical gleam that left Huggy's heart skipping. It was the same glimmer he had seen in Hutch's eyes, the night he had found him unresponsive, sleepwalking toward some unknown thing in the night.

Had Dobey visited the Marcus compound? Huggy found himself wondering, and if so what had he found waiting for him in the darkness—had Marcus used his powers to undermine Hutch, to ensure his frantic requests for assistance with finding Starsky remained discredited and disbelieved?

"Hutch," Dobey said authoritatively, "I know things have been difficult lately, but finding your dog—"

"For _fuck_ sake!" Hutch screamed. "How the hell did he get there, Captain? Marcus's place is miles outside the city—"

"Maybe you took him there," Dobey said. "Listen, Ken, the night Stevens picked you up, you had no idea where you were or what you had done. It is reasonable to think that during that time—"

"Hutch," Huggy said instantly. Something was terribly wrong, he was sure of it. Dobey didn't believe them and he wasn't going to—his grim expression was clear indication that he already believed he knew the truth.

"I found Lucky dripping in blood," Hutch growled, eyes flickering with frustration. "If you think I put him there are you going to try to tell me I bathed him in blood too?"

Though his words were angry, they left Hutch full of panic. Guilty gaze falling to the invisible blood on his fingertips, he took a step back, then another, his eyes frozen on the stains neither Huggy nor Dobey could see.

"Hutch," Huggy said, jumping up from his chair.

"What did I do?" Hutch asked, soft words escaping him with little awareness as he lifted his hands to hover inches from his face.

Suddenly, he was paralyzed by fear; haunted by the heart wrenching questions he had no answers to. The blood covering both his hands and Lucky had come from somewhere—it couldn't have just appeared. Had he taken Lucky to the Marcus property? Was that why his hands remained stained, and why had Lucky—his beloved rescue dog—attacked him the way he had?

 _"You know what you did,"_ a deep gritty voice whispered in his ear, sending shivers down his spine as his mind struggled against violent images of the truth. _"And why. You brought him to me because you wanted to. He was your penance; his body the material needed to pave your road home."_

"No." Tears filling his eyes, Hutch shook his head. Frantically denying the idea, though he knew it was true. "No…I…"

 _"He is your sacrifice so you would be able to come…"_

"It's okay, Hutch…" Dobey said.

Appearing before him, Dobey firmly grasped Hutch's upper arms. But immobilized by the voice in his head Hutch stood grounded in place; unable to register his superior's voice he remained captive to the haunting truth echoing in his head.

 _"You wanted this,"_ the voice hissed. _"You know you did. You knew it from the moment you stepped foot on Marcus's property, from the second you heard his voice and it soothed away your pain. You belong to him—to us—you knew it then, and you know it now."_

"You're having a breakdown," Dobey said, looking warily between Hutch and Huggy. "But it's going to be, okay now. I'm going to get you the help you need."

 _"Come to me,"_ the voice repeated. _"It is time."_

Comforted by the gentle melodic tone, Hutch felt overcome by a numbness as the nervousness in his chest disappeared. Calmed by the certainty behind the statement he knew he had been waiting all along to hear. And suddenly it was all clear. Home. He needed to go home. Not to his the one he and Starsky shared, but to his new home; his eternal home. Where the pain of his past was meaningless because it didn't exist. Where he wouldn't need to convince anyone what he knew or why—where his motivations would always be trusted and his secrets would always remain buried because there they simply didn't exist.

 _"Come to me,"_ the voice whispered. _"Come home."_

"Hutch!" Huggy shouted, pulling him from Dobey's grasp. "You're fine, Hutch." Holding Hutch's gaze with his own, Huggy suppressed another wave of fear. A crazed look had settled on Hutch's features as his eyes glistened with madness.

"Huggy," Dobey rumbled. "Look at him, he's not fine. He needs help, no matter what he says." Striding to the desk, he grabbed his keys and cellphone from the top drawer.

"What are you doing?" Huggy asked as Dobey advanced toward them.

"Taking him into custody."

"What?!"

"I'm taking him to the hospital for a psychiatric examination—"

"You can't do that," Huggy fumed, unnerved by Hutch's prolonged silence, his apparent sudden unawareness of what was going on around him. It was though he was sleepwalking again, though he hadn't fallen asleep.

"Home…" Hutch whimpered softly. "I want to go home."

Huggy groaned as Dobey's brows inclined at the quiet words—a simple dejected sentence that only served to reinforce Dobey's decision.

"But he hasn't done anything," Huggy said, moving to stand protectively between Dobey and Hutch.

"That's not what Starsky said."

"What?"

"Why do you think Starsky hasn't been around, Huggy?" Dobey asked grimly. "Why he chose not to contact Hutch and reached out to me instead?"

Because he's missing, Huggy wanted to scream.

"He and Hutch had an altercation, days ago," Dobey explained. "Hutch roughed Starsky up; it—it was pretty bad. Bad enough to terrify Starsky, to make him want to leave…"

"That's not true…" Huggy said. It was impossible—improbable even—Starsky wasn't terrified of anything, least of all his partner. And, physical fight or not, he never would have left Hutch without saying a word—he never would have left, subsequently choosing to maintain contact with only Dobey. If Starsky had left Hutch, spurred by such dramatic circumstances, he would have confided his decision to Huggy. In fact, he probably would have been sleeping in his vacant rental apartment above the bar, Huggy mused.

"…Starsky's been taking some space," Dobey continued sadly. "He didn't want to press charges, didn't want to jump to conclusions because of the stress Hutch has been under—the grief he been struggling with since his father's death—it was manifesting itself in his obsession with the Blackwell case, but once that was taken away…"

"No," Huggy said as he backed into Hutch, silently encouraging his docile friend to move toward the door. Why wasn't Hutch saying anything? Why had his livid anger disappeared; why wasn't he defending himself against Dobey's words?

"Starsky's worried about him, Huggy. We all are. He needs help. Assaulting his partner? Covering his dog in blood and abandoning him at the Marcus compound in an effort to further his delusions toward Marcus? Just the other night, he was picked up, wandering half-naked around a neighborhood with no memory of why he was there. He needs help, Huggy. Look at him, even now, he's completely unaware of himself."

Watching Hutch, Huggy couldn't disagree—it was apparent something was horribly wrong—but something inside of him was screaming that allowing Dobey to take Hutch would only make things worse. He had been on the Marcus compound; seen things he couldn't explain, felt anxiety and dread envelope him as walked through the eerie interior of the farmhouse which shouldn't have existed. He had heard the song echoing through the stairwell, and with Hutch, he discovered Lucky, traumatized and blood-soaked, locked behind the attic door. And if Dobey wanted to believe—was being made to believe—that all of this had been set up by Hutch—that it was all nothing more than a manifestation of a mental breakdown, a clever way to further support his suspicions of Simon Marcus—it was his prerogative to do so, but Huggy wouldn't do the same—he _couldn't_ do the same. And he would be damned if was going to let Dobey take Hutch for a psychological evaluation, or otherwise.

"No," Huggy said stubbornly as he elongated his spine and peered into Dobey's eyes. "Hutch is fine, just tired. You're not taking him—"

"Dobey!" A man's voice bellowed shortly before the office door was flung open to reveal John Blaine, red faced and huffing, his hand frozen on the doorknob. "My guys, they found something."

"What?" Dobey asked.

"A body," Blaine gasped, "of a man, buried in a shallow grave on the hill behind the farmhouse on the Marcus compound. And Dobey…" he paused, his face wrinkling in fear. "Blue tennis shoes, they said he was wearing blue Adidas tennis shoes."


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two

**Prior Months:**

The sun was low in the sky by the time they arrived at the Marcus compound. Spilling from the backseat of Dobey's dark sedan, Hutch and Huggy didn't say a word, though there were several questions Huggy wanted to ask: what had come over Hutch in Dobey's office; why had he become so unresponsive?

Though Hutch's odd behavior didn't last, his silence did. Hiding his eyes behind dark lenses of his sunglasses, he didn't say a word. And trailing behind Blaine, Dobey, and Hutch, as they walked single file up the pathway to the top of the hill behind the decrepit Marcus house, Huggy couldn't help wondering if Hutch already knew whose body they would find.

Yellow caution tape encircled the area, encasing most of the small hilltop. Laying stiffly on a black unzipped body bag, the man's body was in full view. His clothing was dirty and torn, sporadically stained with dried blood and dirt from the grave where his killer had tried to hide him. And it may have worked, Blaine had explained on the drive over, if it weren't for the inept way the man had been buried. His entire body had been covered with earth, but his head, feet and hands had remanded sticking out. It was as though someone had intended for him to be found.

Rubber-glove-clad and camera toting, a small forensic team descended upon the body; the brightness of their camera flashes left an array of black dots in Huggy's line of vision as he stood outside of the diameter of the caution tape, lingering as he watched the trio he had arrived with step closer and closer to the body on the ground.

A group of uniformed officers stood before the grave, eyeing Hutch oddly as they whispered inaudible words. Blaine's boys, Hutch mused absently. A group of young hot-shot up-and-comers the elder cop had eagerly claimed for his team. Starsky was once a part of that team, the unwelcome thought passed through Hutch's mind. He and Starsky hadn't been partnered yet, nor had they really known each other. They were nothing but casual acquaintances; uniformed strangers whose paths crossed only occasionally. Growing up across the street from John Blaine and his wife, Starsky had been a shoe-in for the department and Blaine's crew, and majoring in criminology, upon graduation his transition into the department had been seamless.

Starsky's career had been carefully planned and structured, but Hutch's journey had been much more disjointed. His career as a detective boiled down to dumb luck, a chance meeting with Lucas Huntley in an overcrowded coffee shop line two weeks before completing his first year of graduate school.

His father had been furious when he had told him he was leaving school to become a cop, Hutch suddenly recalled, watching Blaine join the circle of uniform officers, their heads bowed as they whispered more secrets. Richard Hutchinson had been furious, but he had been large enough to wish his son good luck on his endeavor—or at least that was how Hutch had decided to remember it. In reality, his father's sarcasm was intended to instill doubt rather than confidence. Hutch knew he had been fortunate to pass the psychological evaluation, and more so that his immense psychiatric history had never been unearthed. Though his father had said it in cruel jest, it seemed luck was and had remained very much on Hutch's side throughout his career.

Until now.

Staring at the body, Hutch recognized the clothes before the face; the all-too-familiar button up shirt and faded jeans Starsky had dressed in during their argument, before disappearing to Huggy's for countless beers and rounds of pool. It would have filled him with crippling dread had he viewed the body at any other location, but the Marcus compound was calming and comforting—the very ground he stood on seemed to put him at ease as he was filled with such with an overwhelming feeling of rightness—besides, Hutch smiled, the clothes were right but the face was wrong.

"Those are Starsky's shoes," Dobey said, his voice low and worried as he pointed the dirty blue and white striped sneakers on the dead man's feet. "I'd recognize those damn things anywhere."

"Gale," Hutch said, eyes locked on the matted hair of the lifeless body.

"Who the _fuck_ is Gale?" Blaine frowned. Striding to stand beside Hutch, he held twin zip locked evidence bags at his side. Heavy with contents, they swayed slightly back and forth as he took each step. "What the _hell_ , Hutchinson? How could you not recognize him after all this time?"

Blinking furiously, Hutch looked at body again and gasped. Gale's features had instantly changed. Dirty blond hair transformed to a dark mop of generous curls, set off by painfully pale skin underneath the bruising, glistening with a waxy sheen of death.

"That's Brian Blackwell," Blaine said matter-of-factly, his face wrinkled in disgust. "How the do you _not_ know that? _Christ_ , how long were you working the case, and you don't even know what your _fucking_ missing person looks like?"

Hutch's composure vanished in an instant. It couldn't be—it didn't make any sense so it couldn't be true. But it was. Freshly exhumed from his too-shallow grave Brain Blackwell was lying lifeless on the cold ground. His face was purple with bruising, his neck red and swollen around broken vertebrae—a violent injury certain to have killed him—but he had finally been found.

Had Gale always been Blackwell? The horrifying question rushed through Hutch's mind. Had he always been there, hiding in plain view, his proper identity distorted by Marcus's dark power? How many times had he seen him; how many times had he visited Marcus on this property only to be invited in by the dead man on the ground?

"Now," Blaine continued, an edge to his voice. "You mind explaining how the hell Brian Blackwell ended up dead, wearing your partner's clothes and shoes?"

"I…" Hutch whispered breathlessly.

"And that isn't all they found."

"No," Hutch murmured as Blaine held up twin plastic evidence bags.

One contained a black leather wallet, the embossed initials of its owner prominently displayed, D and S burned black against the red-brown leather. The other bag contained an iPhone, dented, scratched, and dirty from laying on the ground. The wallet was Starsky's but the phone could belong to anyone; it didn't mean anything. But the small hairline crack, spider webbing at the top of the screen evaporated Hutch's frantic denial. The cracking was too familiar, the unfortunate result of being unknowingly propelled off of his desk at metro by a large stack of case files.

"Shit," Hutch breathed, unaware he had uttered a word.

"Shit is right," Blaine said. Reaching into the interior lapel pocket of his jacket he pulled out his phone. "I want you to call me, right now. Take out your phone and call me."

Numbly, Hutch stuck his hand in his jeans pockets, pulling out various items, wallet, car keys, but no cellphone. Somehow it was gone. Heart thudding hollowly in his chest, he shook his head. "I—I don't have it. I must have left it at home."

Blaine frowned, swiping his way to Hutch's contact information before pressing his large finger on the green phone icon. A dull ringing filled the air, the muted sound filtering from the small speaker on Blaine's phone, and for a moment Hutch didn't breathe, frantically hoping for something other than what was certain to happen– other than what they were all nervously anticipating.

Emerging from behind the caution tape, Huggy appeared at Hutch's side, and they all stood like statues around him, Blaine; Dobey; Huggy; and the group of uniform officers, eyeing him condemningly. Blaine's face set in poorly concealed anger while Huggy and Dobey looked afraid. They were afraid for him, Hutch realized, of what just what he wasn't sure, but he was certain neither of them were nearly as afraid for him as he was for himself.

The orphan iPhone lit up as it began vibrating frantically against the thin plastic of the bag in Blaine's hand, and the words sprawled across the screen were damning: **Incoming call: John Blaine**.

"How do you explain your partner's clothes and personal belongings ending up on the body of Brian Blackwell," Blaine asked. "A missing man whose disappearance you've been investigating for weeks, along with your cellphone haphazardly discarded at the scene?"

"Don't say a word," Dobey instructed firmly, stepping forward to grasp Hutch's forearm.

This is bad, Hutch thought. The first certain thing he had known in days.

Xx

"Please just say something!" Starsky screamed as he sat, blood covered and naked, burrowing into the thin blanket Marcus had given him.

Hutch's frown deepened as he continued pacing from one end of the bunker to the other. No, not pacing, Starsky thought wildly, his eyes glazed with fear, _stalking_. This had been going on for hours, Hutch silently stalking him like a predator, the soles of his shoes thudding against the cement floor as he moved threateningly around the room.

Starsky hadn't meant to make Hutch mad; he hadn't intended to bring it up at all. One second they were having a conversation—the first pleasant one in days. Hutch's smile was contagious, his gentle demeanor comforting, and it had been easy for Starsky to forget how quickly Hutch's mood could change—and the next Starsky had asked the auspicious questions: why was Marcus holding him in a bunker rather than the upstairs of the house, and where were the group of blond men who formed the circle at the bottom of the bloody stairwell in his nightmares?

"I'm not enough for you," Hutch fumed finally, eyes too bright to be human, voice too gritty and deep to be his own. "After all the things we've spoken of, all the things I've done, you still ache for version of me you saw in your dreams."

"No," Starsky frantically whispered, his breath coming in thick fearful sobs. "I-I don't a-ache for a-anything. I just… I can't stand…the quiet."

Watching Hutch aimlessly pace, Starsky struggled to combat his panic. Hutch hadn't touched him yet, but the dangerous of his rigid body, the anger shining in his eyes promised he would, and Starsky, uncertain if he could handle another assault or another bruise, closed his eyes and hoped for death.

"I hear your thoughts!" Hutch screamed. "Do you want them? A house of men, me in the middle, and you, powerless to come to us. Not thinking or feeling anything outside of confusion until it is much too late. Are you ready to die for that which you do not understand?"

"No," Starsky lied.

It sounded easier somehow, to be able to choose how his life ended rather than waiting. There was too much waiting, and he was tired. His body was too broken, his mind too confused to comprehend what was happening now. Marcus had healed the damage Hutch had inflicted before, but the relief hadn't lasted. Emerging from the darkness when Marcus left bunker, Hutch had inflicted a new series of wounds—each more painful that the last, though he had been careful not to burn him again. After cracking Starsky's ribs once more, Hutch had grasped both sides of his head, his long pointed fingernails grew as he poked and prodded him.

Starsky had felt fingertips grasp his mind—leaving his memories charred with darkness, shredding his certainty and shattering what little hope he had left. It had filled him with panic, pain, and a deep unsettling helplessness as haunting noises echoed through his head. The sound of dark deep chested laughter intermixing with his mother's shrill screams—the only firm memories of his mother he had left. Her crying in the snow the day they buried his father and her dangerous screaming echoing through the house months afterward, when she had finally lost what little control she had left.

Years ago, the darkness had somehow found his mother and it had turned her mad. Now it had done the same to him.

"…I have given you so much," Hutch seethed. "I have allowed you to see me, and still you want something else…"

"No." Starsky cowered in fear. His body throbbed as he pushed himself further against the wall. "I don't want anything else. I don't _need_ to see anything—"

"…I'm not enough for you; I thought you were different, but you're the same. I would have liked to keep you but I will _not_ now. Things could have been so different between us…"

"No."

"A dark stairwell, bleeding walls, and room full of men, I wasn't enough for you, so I will give you _exactly_ what you want."

A horrible ringing filled Starsky's ears. High-pitched and relentless, it made him feel as though his ear drums were seconds from bursting. Pressing his hands to his ears, panic filled Starsky's chest as he felt the room shift. Moving and transforming under his weight, it abruptly changed, transforming from the dark bunker into the equally dark upstairs hallway of the farmhouse.

Just as suddenly as it started, the ringing stopped, leaving Starsky standing, naked and immobile in the middle of an all-too-familiar hallway. Candle sconces lined the walls, providing little light and casting an unsettling glow on the thick lines of blood slowly seeping down walls. Blood covered the floor, warm and thick it threatened to throw Starsky's trembling body to the floor with each uncertain step.

Hutch had disappeared, but a haunting chorus of men's voices filtered up the stairwell, filling Starsky's chest with dread as goosebumps freckled his skin. This was dream; it _had_ to be another dream.

 _"Simon…Simon…Simon…"_

"No," Starsky whispered frantically, heart threatening to beat out of his chest. "No… No…"

Hutch had disappeared, but Marcus stood at the top of the stairs, a long black robe covering his body, his face set in a deep frown. "I warned you to be mindful of your fears, yet you chose not to hear it," he said. "You have angered fate, and I am afraid, now, there will be no going back."

Xx

Sitting in the backseat of Dobey's sedan, Hutch leaned forward and pressed his forehead on the headrest of the driver's seat as he bit his lip and tried hard to ignore his blood covered hands resting in his lap and the emotionally-charged conversation taking place outside the opposite side of the car. But a chorus of frantic angry voices still filtered to his ears. Some kind of strange grappling for power, for control over his uncertain fate, between Huggy, Dobey, and Blaine. Friend and superiors, believer and skeptics; Huggy believed in the power Marcus held, Dobey and Blaine did not.

Dobey hadn't cuffed him—though Blaine had wanted to—but grasping Hutch by the forearm he had silently walked him back to his car, parked among the scattered squad cars and coroner's van in front the abandoned farmhouse.

"…he didn't do it," Huggy's voice insisted. "You have no right to take him in for something he had nothing to do with—"

"Why are you even here?" Blaine demanded angrily. "Why were you even allowed to come? This is closed crime scene; you have no business being here!"

"I'm a friend of Starsky and Hutch's—"

"I know who you are!" Blaine roared, voice raising an octave. "And you don't belong here!"

"He's witness," Dobey interjected, his angry tone matching Blaine's.

"Of this?" Blaine scoffed.

"Of something else," Huggy said insistently. "You see, Hutch and me, we found something in the Marcus house—"

"I bet you did," Blaine sneered. "I bet Hutchinson planted whatever you found just like he planted David's shit on Blackwell—"

"Blaine," Dobey warned.

"Oh, don't act like you don't suspect him too," Blaine shouted. "I saw the files, Dobey. His incorrect assessment of the property along with his delusional reports on Simon Marcus. He wanted Marcus to be responsible for Blackwell, so he made it happen. He's been a _God-damn_ nut-job since his father passed. The whole department's been a witness to his inability to control himself—"

Hutch jumped as someone thrust open his car door. Leaning back, he stared wide-eyed at a young uniform officer. "What are you—"

"I have something for you," the officer said, his eyes unnaturally bright as his mouth curled into a crazed smile.

"What?" Hutch whispered, reading the name etched in the officer's golden name badge: W. Cooper, before comprehending who he was.

Cooper was one of Blaine's boys: his favorite, and for a moment Hutch was afraid. Perhaps, overhearing the argument between Blaine and the others, Cooper had decided to take matters into his own hands and had come to sneak Hutch away in his squad car to deliver him downtown to be booked and held—the opposite of what Dobey wanted to do.

Why was Dobey arguing with Blaine at all? Hutch wondered absently. Dobey was Blaine's superior, why was he allowing him to question his wishes in such an insubordinate way?

"It's this place," Cooper said, answering his silent question. "It comes over people. Makes them drunk with anger or blinds them with fear. It makes them do strange things; shows them what they wish to see most or things they hope they never will. Blaine doesn't like you, never has. He wants you to be guilty."

"And Dobey?" Hutch asked, voice dry.

"He cares for you but believes you've gone crazy. He knows about you, Kenneth, your past, your lies. You were so intent on concealing your secrets from Starsky, that you forgot there were others who could discover what Marcus knew. But that's okay; it will all be over soon." He paused, smiling as he extended his hand and offered Hutch another all-too-familiar object.

"How did you get that?"

"It told me to take it and bring it for you."

"Blaine?"

"No." Cooper frowned. "Don't act like you don't know. They're waiting for you; it wanted you to have this before you came."

Looking out the windshield, Hutch held his breath, agonizing over what he should do. His mind was screaming for him to stay in the car, but his heart was pleading for him to go. Leaving meant giving into the pull of Marcus, the perfect numbness of letting go of everything he remembered and the anxiety of eventually being found out. And now, staying had become almost more frightening than leaving.

"You know what will happen if you stay," Cooper continued. "Starsky will remain missing. No one will ever see him again, and you will be condemned for what they have found. Your actions will never be forgotten but never properly understood."

"And if I go?"

"Starsky will die, but you won't live with the pain of his loss. You will have respite, having finally found where you really belong."

"…I can't believe you're defending him…!"

Hutch jumped again as Blaine's angry voice filtered to his ears. Turning his gaze to the closed tinted window on the opposite side of the car, he watched Dobey plant his hands indignantly on his hips, preparing himself for a bitter fight. Booking Hutch downtown, further questioning and possibly charging him for Blackwell's death and Starsky's disappearance—or involuntarily admitting him to a psychiatric hospital that was the argument Blaine and Dobey were engaged in, and while neither were desirable options, Hutch knew that probability of either were impossibly low, because his resistance of Marcus had been futile; his return to the compound had been planned.

Though Hutch had returned under Dobey's supervision and at the insistence of Blaine, Marcus's dubious planning—his cunning actions with Blackwell's body, Starsky's belongings, and Hutch's cellphone—had insured Hutch would never leave, that he would chose the end Marcus wanted all along.

Leaving him with no other option, Marcus had ensured Hutch would chose him.

"If you go now, no one will see you," Cooper continued, offering the item in his hand once more. "If you wait any longer the choice will be made for you."

Taking a deep breath, Hutch emerged from the backseat, and taking his gun and holster from Cooper's outstretched hand, he strapped it around his shoulders and ran toward the abandoned house. He didn't think about where Marcus was; he knew where to go, and what he would find.

Xx

 _"Simon…Simon…Simon…"_

"You wanted this!" Starsky whispered hoarsely, his dry throat stinging in protest as the words came out. Nervously clenching his fists at his sides, he lingered paces away from where Marcus remained, frozen in place at the top of the blood covered stairwell. "Y-you wanted me in this place. I dreamed it from the beginning—"

"Your dreams are not representative of anything," Marcus said. "Your inability to see that has angered fate."

" _What?_ "

"Some things have explanation; they are or are not, and why you will never know. You angered fate by questioning her actions. In your pain and confusion you have been questioning the dreams; why your visions of the group in the house and your time in the darkness with fate are so different."

"Why did I dream of it?" Starsky asked numbly. "What was the purpose of the dreams?"

"The dreams were memories that did not belong to you. Knowledge gifted to you by fate, born from her affinity of your deep respect of this land, who I am, and what I do here."

"What do you do here?"

 _"Simon…Simon…Simon…"_

"Many things," Marcus smiled, "some you already know. Some you soon will. I did not see you choosing this end—the one you dreamed—with your insistence to deny Hutchinson's faults I believed you would remain in the darkness forever."

"I didn't chose this."

"And, yet, you did," Marcus said matter-of-factly. "Unconsciously you wanted it. It was why you allowed yourself to dwell upon it so fervently. Your dreams have always been your escape when you could not handle what was being done. Though I can see why you would want to deny the choice now, death over life is never an easy choice."

"I haven't been thinking of them for that long," Starsky whispered, knowing the words were a lie.

The nightmare images were what he had focused on while he had killed Gale. He had imaged the blood covered walls, the chanting, and Hutch surrounded by men. He had recalled the horror attached to his unsolicited dreams so he didn't have to feel the horror of his own actions; he had recalled the dread and pain born from his nightmares so he didn't have to focus on emotions tied to killing Gale—the horrifying thing the darkness had influenced him to do. He had killed a man with his bare hands, choked him until he passed out then broke his neck as though he were an animal.

 _A dead animal_. Starsky felt nauseated as the unwelcome hissing voice whispered in his mind, eliciting a familiar sharp throbbing that shot up the side of his head.

"We are awaiting the arrival of Hutchinson—"

"Hutch?" Starsky grimaced against his headache, eyes darting around the dark hallway. "Hutch is already here."

"Is he?"

"He's…"

Starsky hesitated, groaning as the pain in his head escalated, settling behind his eye socket before crawling down his neck and spine. Suddenly confused, he looked at Marcus. Was Hutch waiting for him downstairs—like in his dreams—or was he hiding in the shadows of the hallway, waiting until Marcus left to emerge. Hutch had been so angry the last time he had showed himself, Starsky thought uneasily. If he appeared again there was no telling what he would do.

"Hutch is here," Starsky continued impassively, an unshakable certainly settling deep in his heart. "He won't come from the darkness now; he'll wait until you're gone. But he'll come; he always does." _Please don't leave me_ , Starsky thought, but he refused to give his desperation a voice.

"He does," Marcus assured.

"He hurts me."

"Does he?"

"Tells me horrible things—"

"Does he make you bleed?" Marcus asked gleefully. "Has he done what I said he would?"

"I didn't know I could hurt like this," Starsky admitted, his voice monotone and eerily calm. "Will it be over soon?"

"It will." Mouth curling into a satisfied smile, Marcus offered Starsky his outstretched hand. "But we must go. After all this time, Hutchinson is finally on his way."


	23. Chapter Twenty-Three

**Prior Months:**

Dirt filled and dust covered, the farmhouse was a shell of what it had been. Sporadic holes peppered the crumbling walls; hairline cracks lined the brittle floorboards that groaned and bowed under Hutch's weight, throwing off his balance and threatening to send him crashing into the basement, into the uncertainty whatever lay in depths below. The air was thick and suffocating. Every inhale tasted sour and every exhale left a cloud of fog in front of Hutch's mouth, but an odd calmness had settled into his chest as soon as he pushed through the damaged front door, a strange acceptance that contradicted the chill creeping up his spine.

There was no stopping now, no going forward or back.

He couldn't see where he was going, but it didn't matter. His body felt fluid, his mind blank as he moved quickly, striding through the entry, up the rickety oak staircase only to linger at the top of the stairs. Burning brightly, a small oil lamp waited patiently on the floor. It flame cast eerie shadows on the decrepit walls as he considered it for a moment, an odd skepticism creeping into the pit of his stomach. Where had the lamp come from, and why would it be burning so purposefully when the rest of house remained emerged in abandoned darkness?

Bending to retrieve it, Hutch held the lamp tightly, his fingers slipping against the thick glass base as he looked carefully around. The decrepit hallway was empty and he was alone, but he gasped as his gaze settled on the blood staining the floor. Though the décor of the house had changed, Lucky's bloody paw prints remained, sticking out on the worn floorboards and disappearing underneath the closed attic door. Free hand resting unconsciously on his sidearm, Hutch's heart sank as he stood, paralyzed in place by the sight of the blood. Lucky hadn't been cut or physically injured, so why was there so much blood?

Suddenly, he felt a wetness on his fingertips, a thick warm liquid that oozed from underneath his fingernails. Lifting his hands, he gasped as he realized the blood on his hands had changed. No longer a dry stain, it was fresh and warm, trickling from his fingertips down the backs of his hands before falling to speckle and stain the paw prints on the floor.

What had he done? What the hell had he done—to both Lucky and Starsky, his beloved dog and loving husband?

 _"You know,"_ a dark gritty voice whispered, echoing through the empty hallway. _"You know what you did."_

And Hutch did.

Images of the night Starsky went missing swirled in his head. Starsky had laughed when he saw Hutch handcuffed to the bed, kissed him tenderly as he freed his arm from headboard, and groaned wantonly as he pulled Hutch's t-shirt over his head. But Starsky had screamed when he finally noticed Simon Marcus, standing motionless in the corner of their bedroom. And he had fought—oh _god_ , had he fought—before Hutch slammed his head off the floor.

"I brought him here. I brought them both here," Hutch whispered breathlessly, an old familiar ache setting in his chest as he gripped the lamp impossibly tight. "But you... you were there too."

 _"Me?"_ the voice asked.

"Yes, you. Marcus—"

 _"I am not Marcus,"_ the voice growled angrily. _"We are not the same."_

"What?"

 _"I was not there."_

"Where were you then?"

 _"Here. I am always here. In the darkness I waited, for you to bring your offering, for you to finally be ready to accept your fate."_

"But Marcus took Starsky. He _wanted_ Starsky—"

 _"Marcus belongs to me; he wants what I allow."_

"And who are you?"

 _"I am everyone and no one. I can be whoever you want me to be. I am the one who wanted Starsky so that you would come."_

Blinking numbly, Hutch struggled to comprehend the words. Who was this person? What was this thing with the chilling voice he could hear and a body he could not see?

 _"Would you like me to show myself to you?"_ the voice asked.

"No," Hutch whispered.

 _"Would you like me to show you someone else?"_

"No. I came to see Marcus not you."

 _"You came for yourself."_

"No."

 _"When given the choice between dealing with the consequences of your actions or running away, you decided to run away. Just like you did before, just like you always will."_

"What do you know about before?" Hutch croaked, fear rushing through him. Were the words a boastful jest or did this thing know something more? Did it know what Marcus had—the horrible buried secret that had started this whole mess? Heartbeat quickening with sudden rage, Hutch clenched his free fist at his side and took a step forward. "Tell me what you know!" he demanded, turning in a frantic circle, a futile attempt to see something—anything— that would explain the voice coming from the darkness.

But the hallway remained empty and a deep, grinding laughter filled the air.

"Who are you?" Hutch asked, his voice a low warning growl. "Tell me who you are!"

The laughter stopped abruptly, and for long agonizing moments the only sounds Hutch heard were pounding of his heart and his labored breaths. They came in tandem, forming an agonizing terror-born symphony, threatening his resolve to find Marcus and chipping away at what little sanity he had left.

What was he doing here; why had he come?

"You came because you didn't have a choice," a familiar voice suddenly said.

Hutch gasped, anxiety pounding in his chest as his stomach dropped. It wasn't right—there was no way he could have heard a voice of a man he hadn't seen in years.

"No," he whispered, watching helplessly as the man belonging to the voice emerged from the darkness. With messy blond hair, ripped jeans, and a blood stained henley, the man looked like he had stepped out of the past or a repressed memory.

Slipping from Hutch's hand, the lamp shattered as it hit the floor, splattering kerosene on the Hutch's shoes and seeping into a messy pool to be eagerly soaked up by the pale floorboards. The flame remained, despite the fall, and crackling angrily, it flickered brightly and grew quickly, feeding itself with the freshly soaked wood.

"What the matter, Kenny?" the man sneered evilly. "You aren't happy to see me?"

"Y-you're not here," Hutch said, voice shaking as he absently stepped away from the flame on the floor, unconscious steps taking him closer to the attic and further from the staircase. "You can't possibly be here!"

"Why?"

"Because you're..." Hutch's voice faltered, cutting off his startled crazed tone. Pressing his palms to the sides of his head, he walked backwards until his back hit the wall, looking frantically between the attic door next to him and the man standing paces away.

Could the man really be here? It wasn't impossible, merely improbable. The man standing before him wasn't dead like his father, but in jail instead. He could have broken out or been released— _no_. Hutch closed his eyes and frowned, reminding himself that neither of those things had happened, nor would they. As a cop he kept track of the man's current whereabouts and knew he was in prison over 2,000 miles away. As victim he remained hyperaware that the man standing before him was serving two consecutive life sentences without parole.

"You got big, Kenny boy," the man sneered. "Tall. Handsome—"

"You take one step closer, I'll—"

"You'll what?"

Hutch snapped his mouth shut. He didn't know—what could he possibly do to a man who couldn't be standing in front of him?

"Cry?" the man laughed. "You cried a lot the last time we were together. Nearly thirty years have gone by, you're bigger but you're still afraid. Jesus, you look like you're gonna start crying any second—"

"Shut up!"

"Boy, we got bossy, didn't we? What happened to your obedience? The little boy who—cried _a lot_ —but always did what he was told?"

"I'm not that kid anymore," Hutch said, voice firm despite the tears welling in his eyes. "And you're not real."

"You can see me, so that makes me real to you."

And the man was real, Hutch thought, heart skipping in his chest; whether he was standing in front of him or incarcerated states away, the man was real. It was his actions that had brought Hutch here. The fear of secrets of what had been done years ago the catalyst that held Hutch captive to Marcus's hold.

If only he would have told Starsky, Hutch thought wretchedly. If only he would have been brave enough to tell the truth.

"You know why you didn't, though, don't you?" the man jeered. "Because you were afraid of having him look at you the way she did. You were afraid that if you showed him your scars, then he'd walk away too."

"No!" Hutch furiously denied, though he knew it was the truth. He had been afraid—he was still afraid—of Starsky knowing the truth. He would never forget the look in Vanessa's eyes the day she found out—a mixture of sadness, pity, and something else—she looked at him like a victim, like he was too damaged to love, and Hutch couldn't—he wouldn't—chance seeing the same look in Starsky's eyes, even if it meant keeping his past buried and living a lie, even if it meant—

"Even if it meant letting him die," the man finished.

"No," Hutch murmured, the word contradicting the truth he knew in his heart. He hadn't come for Starsky right away because he hadn't wanted to; he hadn't been ready to tell the truth.

"For someone who knows what it feels like to be held captive in darkness, broken, bound, and tortured while awaiting help that comes too late, you certainly waited long enough to come for him."

"I didn't come for him," Hutch whispered dreadfully, realizing the truth of the man's earlier words. He hadn't come to rescue Starsky; he had come to hide from his past because even after all this time, it was easier to run away—to disappear—than it was to live with the consequences of the truth. "I came for myself."

Hutch's soft statement echoed through the hollow farmhouse walls, intermixing with the popping and crackling of the fire engulfing the staircase.

"Uh, oh," the man grinned, eyeing the flame, "looks like it's too late to go back now." He evaluated Hutch for a moment, before his fragmented figure begun to slowly disappear, evaporating into thin air as the attic door opened slowly, letting out a long loud creak.

 _"It is time,"_ a deep gritty voice hissed from the darkness behind the door. _"It is finally time."_

Xx

 _"Simon… Simon… Simon…"_

"Wait," Starsky said. Cringing as the chorus of voices continued echoing up the stairwell, he ground his bare feet against the floorboards and struggled to pull his hand from Marcus's grasp.

"Why?" Marcus asked disinterestedly. Turning slightly, he lingered on the top step, holding Starsky's hand tightly as he peered up at him.

"I don't wanna go down there," Starsky protested quietly, his eyes wide with fear.

"Why not?"

 _"Simon… Simon… Simon…"_

"I…" Starsky hedged. Marcus said Hutch was on his way, what if he arrived and joined the group—what if his partner was awaiting his presence to finally do what Starsky had dreamed?

"It will not be that way." Marcus smiled, his thumb jetting across the top of Starsky's hand. "I promise you, it will not end the way you dreamed."

 _"Simon… Simon… Simon…"_

"Because the dreams… they weren't mine," Starsky said, his soft voice afraid and unsure. "Right?"

"Correct."

 _"Simon… Simon… Simon…"_

Biting his bottom lip, Starsky eyed him hesitantly, his stomach churning with fear. "But… if the dreams weren't mine, then how does end?"

Smile growing, Marcus's eyes twinkled with delight, but he remained quiet, grasping Starsky's free hand and entwining their fingers, he pulled him swiftly down the stairs.

 _"Simon… Simon… Simon…"_

Feet slipping, Starsky stumbled forward. Legs moving quickly but unsteadily beneath him, his body threatened fall down the stairs with each precarious step, but Marcus's grip didn't waver. The strength of his hold was somehow able to keep Starsky upright. Coming to the bottom of the staircase, Starsky absently noticed the incessant chanting suddenly ceased—not that he cared.

"No…" He shook his head desperately. "This isn't right. I didn't dream this. I-I'd rather have the dream!" he exclaimed, voice catching.

The basement of the farmhouse was gone, replaced once again by the dank darkness of the bunker. The thought of returning to the foreboding space was unbearable, filling Starsky's chest with dread and fear, and he let out a series of thick sobbing gasps.

He couldn't go back; he wouldn't go back.

"I w-want the d-dream!" Starsky cried. "I w-want to c-come d-down the s-stairs in the h-house and I want H-Hutch to smile b-before—"

"That is not what fate wants," Marcus said indifferently.

"I want it to be over! You said—"

"Shhhhhh!" Marcus lifted a warning finger in the air, setting his gaze on the closed bunker door. "Listen."

Gasping against his tears, Starsky stood frozen in place, his eyes widening in terror as he watched the bunker door creak open.

 _"It is time,"_ a deep gritty voice hissed from the darkness. _"...it is finally time."_

"N-No," Starsky whimpered, his stomach churning.

Xx

Hutch's footsteps echoed solidly as he descended into the bunker. Eyes wide and heart pounding, he looked around the small, cavernous area. The room was achingly familiar, the dense sour aroma—body fluids, waste, and violence—too pungent to ever forget.

"No," Hutch murmured, the word coming in tandem with Starsky's whimper across the room.

It couldn't be. It was impossible, but somehow it was.

Captive to their surroundings, Hutch stood frozen at the base of the staircase, looking at Marcus and Starsky with unseeing eyes as he fought to control the panic rising in his chest. He had been in this place; it had been nearly thirty years ago, but Hutch had been held in this place. The peeling industrial walls and coldness of dirt covered floor were burned into his memory—forever embed with fear, too primal for words, and pain, too crippling to ever forget.

"Why does he have a gun this time?" Starsky asked, hushed voice trembling. "I-It wasn't enough that he could hurt me with his hands, b-but he had to have a weapon too?"

"You wanted a quick end," Marcus chuckled. "And you already came down the stairs, perhaps, if you ask nicely he will smile as he pulls the trigger." He looked at Starsky fondly. "Do you see his hands? That's your blood staining his fingertips."

Mouth hanging open, Hutch looked at his hands guiltily. The blood had stopped oozing but the dark staining remained, serving as a heart wrenching reminder that he had caused this too—this his inability to tell the truth, the intense fear he harbored over the past, had welcomed the situation.

"He's going to kill me, isn't he?" Starsky whispered.

"It is what fate wants," Marcus said matter-of-factly.

"But you..."Starsky's voice caught on a desperate sob. "You said you would protect me. You—"

"I said no such thing."

"But—"

"I'm not going to kill you," Hutch said, voice sad and deep. Tearing his gaze from his hands,u he looked at Starsky, face crumbling over what he saw.

Standing naked next to Marcus, Starsky looked terrible. Cuts and bruises covered nearly every inch of his skin—long deep lines and dark purple blotches encased by swollen skin, angry and infected. Part of his ribcage was concaved, the skin around it red, puckered and protruding by sharp jagged edges of broken ribs. For a moment Hutch wondered how Starsky could be standing upright—how he could possibly bear the pain of elongating his spine—but when his gaze dropped to Starsky's swollen nether-regions the thought was erased by a gasp.

"Oh, baby," Hutch breathed, tears welling in his eyes. What has he done to you? The question crossed his mind—another thought that was quickly silenced. He knew the room, the smell, the telling stains on the floor, and what had happened. With excruciating certainty, he knew—and remembered—all the horrific things that had been done.

"Fate always has a way of exploiting our fears." Marcus eyed Hutch knowingly. "You did not want to share your past with him so fate did it for you. She disclosed what you could not."

"Fuck fate, you did this," Hutch growled. Clenching his fists, he advanced quickly—dangerously—toward Marcus.

"No!" Starsky sobbed desperately. Cowering in terror, he slipped to the floor, pressing his body against the wall in an effort to disappear. "P-please don't touch me!" he cried. "P-please, Hutch, I can't stand anymore. I can't do it anymore!"

Starsky's sobs echoed through the bunker, and face falling, Hutch felt nothing but grief. His heart ached for his partner and what Marcus had done—beautiful, bold, sassy Starsky, reduced to a damaged fearful quivering mess on the dirt covered floor.

"Oh, Starsky," Hutch said. "I'm not going to hurt you. I would never—"

"This is your fault, Hutchinson," Marcus said evenly. "And Starsky will never forgive you for what he endured at the hands of fate because of you. He trusted you and you made him bleed."

"I didn't touch him," Hutch protested.

"And, yet, you did." Marcus smiled.

Overcome by nausea, Hutch felt sick as he watched Marcus's calm demeanor. He looked happy—elated—striding to pull Starsky from the floor.

"You must never sit while you can stand," Marcus lightly scolded, holding him close. Starsky fidgeted nervously, his back pressed against Marcus's chest, his eyes wide with fear as he stared at Hutch. "Now," Marcus continued, resting his chin on Starsky's shoulder as he peered at Hutch. "Are you ready? Are you prepared to die for the one you love?"

"N-no," Starsky said, face crumbling.

"Why not?"

"Because... I can't…" Starsky sobbed brokenly. "I don't… love him, not anymore."

Marcus's eyes glistened with pleasure. "Your fears were warranted," he laughed at Hutch. "He saw the real you, and the horror of it was enough to fracture his love."

"I don't want to die," Starsky said his dull pleading gaze fixated on Hutch. "P-please, just leave me alone. Please just go back to the darkness. I-I can't... I thought I could, but I can't."

"I'm not going to hurt you," Hutch said tearfully. "I would never."

"But you did," Marcus sneered gleefully. "Your carefully guarded secrets created this situation. Your inability to let go of the darkness of your past led you to me. Your obstinate insistence to push Starsky away made this situation easy for fate to exploit—"

"Shut up," Hutch whispered darkly, fuming as Marcus's words hit nerve after nerve, filling his stomach full of grief-fueled regret and his heart full of rage. He may have made mistakes, but this was Marcus's fault. Marcus had done this, used his fears against him, stolen Starsky, and concocted this horrifying situation.

And it was horrifying. Marcus had held Starsky in a bunker mirroring the one Hutch had been kept in as a child, and he had recreated the injuries Hutch had sustained, leaving Starsky mutilated and terrified.

"Ah!" Marcus scolded. "You created this situation. You came to me because you wanted to and you gave me Starsky because you would rather he die not knowing your truth—"

"That's a lie!" Hutch screamed.

"It is the truth." Marcus nodded at Starsky. "Look at him. He knows your truth now; in explicit detail, he knows, and he is terrified of you. Of who you are, who you have been, and who you will become."

Eyes frozen on Starsky, Hutch wanted to deny the truth of Marcus's words but couldn't. Starsky's body was rigid in Marcus's grasp, his eyes wide, glazed over with exhaustion and fear. Starsky was afraid of him, Hutch thought, the realization hitting him hard. Enveloped by Marcus's arms, Starsky wasn't repulsed by his touch. His palpable anxiety and fear wasn't born from Marcus's evil presence, it was result of Hutch standing inches away.

"And what will you do now?" Marcus asked. "You have a choice, of course, you always have a choice. But if you rescue Starsky how you will recover from this moment? How will you salvage your life knowing his love for you is gone? How will you help him recover from that which you were never able to recover from yourself?"

Hutch didn't know. Angry tears welling in his eyes, fury pounded in his heart as Marcus's statement circled in his head. How could he and Starsky make it past this? How could Starsky, knowing what he knew now, ever look at him without horror in his eyes?

"You know you must do it," Marcus said matter-of-factly. "You were certain before you came that you could not go back, and now," he nodded at Starsky, "you know you cannot go forward either. You must do what you came to do. You want to stay, otherwise why would you have come? You ache to seek respite in the darkness, to live where your scars no longer matter, and you can. You can stay with us forever, but first you must kill him."

Hutch flinched as Marcus's words hung in the thick air and they held each other's gaze. Sad blue eyes flickering with stubborn fury refusing to break from inquisitive brown. It would be so easy, Hutch thought madly, to do what Marcus was asking. To give into the pull of not having to live in fear of the past or future. The weight of what had been done to him as a child and what his secrets had cost Starsky now. And though he considered it momentarily, his love for Starsky was too deep to allow Hutch to follow through on such an evil thought. Marcus should have known his desire for self-preservation would never outweigh his protectiveness over his partner. But as a chill swept through the bunker and Marcus's face contorted with a terrifying frown, Hutch wondered if had already known what Hutch would chose.

"Have it your way then. But you cannot save him now," Marcus said coldly, adjusting his grip on Starsky as he pulled a hunting knife from beneath his robe. Starsky gasped as the cold metal touched him, then screamed in pain as the blade cut through his skin.

Fearful rage rushing through his body, Hutch didn't think. Pulling his gun from his holster he didn't see Starsky's terror filled eyes and he didn't hear his partner's haunting screams as he aimed his gun at Marcus's forehead and pulled the trigger.

Marcus's body stiffened as the bullet embedded itself into his skull. Arms falling to his sides, he took an unconscious step back while Starsky fell the ground at his feet, his body quivering as he choked on the blood filling his mouth. Lifting a hand, Marcus fingered the blood tricking from his head wound before extending his arm and looking at the substance in awe.

"You _can_ bleed in your dreams," he said seconds before Hutch emptied the rest of his chamber into his chest.

Breathing heavily, Hutch looked between the bodies on the floor, numb shock rushing through him.

 _"You did well,"_ a gritty voice whispered from the darkness. " _You killed Marcus. Everything is exactly as I intended it to be."_

Hutch rushed to kneel in the dirt at Starsky's side. "Baby—"

"No! Stay away from me!" Starsky screamed shrilly, blood sputtering from his mouth. "D-don't touch m-me! Y-you killed h-him!" Crawling to where Marcus lay, he wrapped his arms around the lifeless body, settled his head heavily on Marcus's chest, and sobbed.

"Baby," Hutch whispered thickly, helpless to comfort his partner. "I—"

"Hold it!" a deep authoritative voice interrupted as the bunker was suddenly illuminated with the beams of a dozen flashlights. "Hutchinson, drop your weapon now!" John Blaine continued fiercely, surrounded by his uniformed officers, all with their guns aimed at Hutch.

Not having the strength to argue or explain, Hutch threw his empty weapon on the ground and rested his head in hands.

What had he done?

Xx

Time passed slowly until Hutch was allowed to leave the bunker. Carefully avoiding probing questions and the uniformed officer's condemning gazes, Hutch remained on the ground, sadness etched on his face as he watched Blaine try and fail to gently coax his sobbing partner away from Marcus's dead body.

It wasn't long before Dobey joined them. Wrapping Starsky in a warm blanket, his soft paternal voice was the only one Starsky would respond to, and, eventually, he was able to convince Starsky to exchange Marcus's presence for his own. Sobbing and desperately clinging to his superior, Starsky finally allowed the trio of EMT's poke and prod him before being loaded onto a gurney and transported to the awaiting ambulance.

Following Dobey, Hutch emerged from the bunker. He frowned as his shoes hit gravel, then gasped as he saw the night sky. They were in the middle of a field. In the distance the farmhouse was engulfed by flames; its aged fixtures cracked loudly as they burned, intermixing with Starsky's dry deep-chested sobs, scattered chatter of firemen and police officers, and the faint sound of the firehose's spray hitting the flames.

"Get out of the way," a uniformed officer growled from behind, grasping Hutch by the backs of his elbows as he propelled him forward. "You're blocking entry to the bunker."

Hutch hesitated dumbly, struggling to reconcile how he had gotten from the attic of the house to a field nearly a hundred yards away.

"Come on."

"It's you again," Hutch breathed, glancing behind him as the officer shoved him once more.

"What?" Officer Cooper scoffed.

"You were at the car," Hutch said. "You helped me... you—"

"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about."

"But, you gave me my gun!" Hutch protested, fingering his empty holster. The image of receiving the gun was firmly imprinted in his mind, but it was a memory that didn't seem to be shared as Cooper eyed him with a mixture of annoyance and skepticism.

"Buddy," Cooper said. "I don't know how you got your gun, but I wouldn't be bringing it up now if I were you. Not with the way shit just went down. You killed a man back there, and your partner was screaming like hell for us to stop you from killing him too."

Hutch's stomach lurched as Cooper pushed past him, quickly continuing toward the fury of movement in front of the farmhouse. Was Cooper pretending or did he not remember what he had done? Not that mattered anymore; Marcus was dead, his invisible hold nulled and voided when he exhaled his last breath.

Continuing numbly toward the activity, Hutch watched as the EMTs loaded Starsky into the back of an ambulance, then frowned as Dobey climbed in behind him. He should be accompanying Starsky to the hospital, holding his hand and comforting his terrified tears Hutch thought angrily, not Dobey. His heart sank as the ambulance doors were slammed shut, and a high pitched siren filled the night air as the vehicle quickly sped away.

Once again, Starsky was gone—torn away in an instant—and there wasn't anything he could do.

"Hutchinson," Blaine growled from behind.

Closing his eyes, Hutch hung his head and sighed.

"You may think that you can dodge the truth of what happened down there, but you can't," Blaine said, voice low but angry. "I heard his screams, we all saw how he reacted to you. It's only a matter of time before your involvement in this comes out."

"I didn't do shit," Hutch said, the furious lie tumbling out.

"How did David get down there?"

"I don't know."

"How did you know where to find him?"

"I didn't," Hutch growled. "It was just luck. Dumb fucking luck, okay?"

"You listen to me: I know you're involved in this, and so do you," Blaine fumed. Stepping forward he grasped Hutch's upper arm, spinning him around to look him in the eye. "But I don't think you worked alone. Where are the others?"

"What?"

"Starsky was screaming about someone else being in the room—about somebody hiding in the darkness, but I didn't see anyone. Where did they go?"

Hutch watched Blaine evaluate him carefully, skepticism and anger reflected in his crisp blue eyes. How was he ever going to be able to explain what happened, when he wasn't sure he understood himself? There would be no easy answers for what happened. No comfortable explanations for the state they had found Starsky in, and turning his gaze to the fire engulfing the farmhouse, Hutch felt his anger build. Screw them—all of them—for not understanding, for labeling him crazy, for not listening until it was much too late. Starsky would carry the scars of their indiscretions. He would have to live with the terrible haunting memories and the weight of everything that had been done. That was enough, Hutch thought. Neither of them needed to make explanations for who or what Marcus had been, for what he had done or the things they had seen.

"There were no others," Hutch said simply, pulling his arm from Blaine's grasp before walking away.


	24. Chapter Twenty-Four

**Current Day:**

In the middle tunnel of a line batting cages, Hutch stood tall, black baseball helmet prominently on his head. The helmet was tight—almost painfully so—but clenching the dented aluminum bat, he ignored the discomfort, chomping on his gum as a mechanic whirring filled the air and the pitching machine came to life.

Anxious for the first pitch, he rocked impatiently on the balls of his feet as the machine took its time warming up. He felt a rush of nervous excitement as he dug the toes of shoes into the ground and shifted his body with a few practice swings, before the machine finally let go of the first baseball, sending it barreling towards him.

In that moment, he didn't think—he didn't have to—years of experience had left his body prepared and the memories laying inconspicuously in his muscles made hitting a baseball as much of an unconscious automatic reflex as breathing. Smirking, he leaned into his swing and felt a wave of violent vibration travel up his arms as the bat made contact, sending the ball flying through the air with a solid clang. Soaring powerfully to the back of the cage, the ball hit the chain-link enclosure, shaking and swaying it with a satisfying sound before falling to the ground.

A third ball joined the first, then a second, and a third. Hutch lost count after the first ten, the comfort of the exertion leaving his body tired but his mind wandering. It wasn't long before he was overwhelmed with thoughts of Starsky—an inevitable result of seeking what his partner had aptly dubbed _batting cage therapy_. Hutch was unsure how many late evenings he and Starsky had spent at the cages. Occasionally, they did it for fun, necessary practice to prepare for an upcoming season, as they both played on Bay City PD's softball team, but more often than not it was an activity sought out to blow off steam, when anger and frustration—with work or each other—reached a tipping point.

But today, Hutch hadn't come to the batting cages seeking respite, nor had he come to prepare for the upcoming season—at least not his own.

"God!" Keiko exclaimed, his face tight with apprehension as Hutch's bat made contact with another ball. "I'm never going to be as good as you."

"Well, not right away." Hutch smiled, leaning into another pitch. "It takes time, Keiko. Practice." And patience, he thought to himself, something that at ten, his "little brother" was still struggling with.

"But I don't want to have to practice, I wanna to be good now," Keiko wined softly, rubbing his fingers absently on the visor of his helmet. "It's not fair, I was good at basketball and now that they won't let me play that, I gotta start over with something else."

"That's life, pal," Hutch muttered, surprising himself with how easily his father's words spilled from his mouth. Still, he was apathetic toward Keiko's plight. Change was never easy, especially when it was being separated from something you loved. Though he wasn't a stand-out player, Keiko enjoyed basketball, and suddenly being too old participate on a YMCA team was a blow.

"It's just for this year," Hutch assured, removing his helmet as the pitching machine whirred to a stop. "Next year you'll be able to try out for your school's basketball team—"

"I don't wanna try out," Keiko grumbled sadly. "I just want to play. What if I'm not good enough to get on the team?"

"You will be."

"But what if I'm not?"

"Then you'll do something else." Wiping at the perspiration dotting his forehead, Hutch eyed the boy warily as he approached the entry to the cage. Abandoning his helmet and bat on the ground, he offered Keiko a smaller, lighter bat. "Your turn."

Frowning hesitantly, Keiko looked between the offered bat and Hutch. "I don't want to."

"Just try it."

"No."

"You promised that if I went first that you would at least try."

"I don't want to, not now. There's no way I'm gonna be as good as you."

"Not with that attitude you won't," Hutch said with forced cheerfulness. "Believe me, Keiko, I'm not that good. If you practice and have a little faith in yourself, you can be just as good as me."

Though the lie was well intentioned, Hutch felt a hint of regret over the words. His skills had been painstakingly developed and honed over the years. T-ball, little league, followed by a starting position on his high school team, then college ball, and six months of A ball had made him as strong of player as he was. But Keiko didn't need to know any of that—he only needed to know enough to inspire him to try.

"I wish Starsky was here," Keiko said regretfully. "He woulda missed at least half those pitches."

"He wanted to be."

Hutch suppressed a cringe as he lied again. But this time, the words were to benefit both of them; Keiko wasn't the only one missing his partner's buffering presence, and he was right: Starsky would have missed a lot more balls than he hit but he would have done it with a smile on his face. Hutch felt a pang of regret, thinking about Starsky's infectious smile—something that had been absent for far too long.

"Yeah, sure," Keiko grumbled. "I can't believe he chose working at a dumb car lot over hanging out with us."

Hutch wanted to laugh but frowned instead. The thought of Starsky choosing to work at his uncle's car lot was absurd, and it was an offer that Starsky had been quick to decline. But just like everything else of late, he hadn't had a choice. Al had arrived at Venice Place early that morning to collect Starsky, the unavoidable result of too many unanswered phone calls and too many days spent locked away in the safety of their apartment. It wasn't good to spend that much time inside, Al had told Starsky—repeating the same worry Hutch had secretly confided to Al the day prior—and the longer he isolated himself, the harder it would be to reintegrate into his old life.

It wasn't as though Starsky hadn't improved, he had made slight steps in the right direction, but each step forward was negated by an immediate step back. Starsky had begun allowing Hutch to hold his hand but was no longer accepting of any other physical contact or proximity. He had ceased hiding in his bedroom during the day, when Hutch was home, but had added two more deadbolts to his bedroom door to hide behind after dark.

The addition of the extra locks had been a hard thing for Hutch to accept—nearly almost as difficult to consider as his partner's reasoning for putting them there. Though neither of them had spoken about it, Hutch knew why they had been added. The first locks had been provided by the contractors at Hutch's request, and it only made sense that he would have a copy of the keys. But these new locks, the ones promptly installed by a friend of Huggy's while Hutch was absent on a particularly long run, Hutch was not offered a set of keys to—at least not by Starsky. Huggy had come through, secretly giving Hutch a copy to keep with the others hidden in the bottom of his sock drawer, the sets of keys Hutch told himself he would never use unless it was an emergency, a silent promise that was becoming harder and harder to adhere to.

He had been Starsky's protector at one point, hadn't he? And Starsky his. Their love had been solid, fierce, and stable; a certain comfort in an uncertain world. But that had all changed in an instant, and the only thing Hutch had ever been sure about dissolved, nearly erased by his asinine determination to keep his darkest secret buried— the scars of which, thanks to Simon Marcus, Starsky now carried deep within his soul.

Sometimes, Hutch wondered what the decision to remain together after everything Starsky had suffered at the hand of Marcus would cost them in the end. If they wouldn't be better off cutting ties and moving on, each creating a new life somewhere else, with someone else, and without the pain of the past and fear of the truth lingering between them and threatening to suffocate them both. They still hadn't talked about it—any of it; the events that led to Starsky abduction, what he had seen, or injuries he suffered—and the uncertainty of it all was slowly driving Hutch mad. Occasionally, he would wonder—on long runs through the city, he would _agonize_ — over what would become of them if their relationship continued to deteriorate, if they were destined to remain together but never touch, to have Starsky love but never trust him again.

What kind of life would that be: Starsky eternally lining his bedroom door with deadbolts and Hutch covertly obtaining copies of the keys?

And when Hutch thought he might be swallowed by his worry over the future and how things were, Starsky started displaying a startling new behavior—one that frightened Hutch most. Starsky's fear of the dark had had given birth to something else: fear of other people, or perhaps, that fear had been there all along. Hidden by other more pressing injuries and the shock and devastation of what had been done to him, maybe that fear had carefully disguised itself among the others, invisible to an outsider, and something Hutch had discovered by chance.

"Hutch?" Keiko asked. "Why is Starsky working at a car lot? I thought he was hurt—"

"What do you know about him getting hurt?" Hutch asked, voice a little too harsh as his chest fluttered with worry. What did Keiko know about Simon Marcus and what had been done? Had he learned half-truths about the events and Hutch's actions along with the rest of the city, on the nightly news?

"I don't know." Keiko shrugged, his face contorting with apprehensive worry. He wasn't used to Hutch's tone or the fierceness sparkling in his eyes. "It was on the news, but mom wouldn't let me watch. All she said was that something really bad happened and that you guys wouldn't be around for a while."

"Oh."

Hutch turned his gaze to the ground. Keiko's words added another layer to his ever-growing worry and guilt as he realized this was the first time they had seen each other in months, since Keiko's final YMCA basketball game. Before things went terribly wrong and before he and Starsky had become so fractured.

"But why is he working at a car lot?" Keiko pressed. "You guys are cops. If he's okay enough to work then why can't he go back to his own job?"

Because he isn't, Hutch though regretfully. Physically, Starsky had healed, but mentally he wasn't well enough to return to work or wash cars at Al's lot.

"It's complicated," he said.

"That means you don't want to talk about it."

"What?"

"When someone says that something is complicated that really means they don't to be asked about it anymore."

"I suppose that's true."

"It's okay if you don't want to talk about it. There's lot of things I don't like to talk about."

"Like what?" Hutch whispered, his own worries suddenly forgotten by the foreign notion that ten year-old Keiko could have buried secrets too.

"I don't wanna talk about it."

"Why?"

"It's _complicated_." Keiko smiled playfully as he grabbed at the bat Hutch held slightly out of reach. "I thought you wanted me try," he teased, laughing as he attempted a few ill-timed jumps for the bat. "But I'm okay if you changed your mind; let's go get pizza instead."

Scoffing, Hutch shook his head before finally handing the bat over. "Get out there," he growled lightheartedly, waiving Keiko inside of the gate.

Xx

Hiding behind a row of parked cars, Al covertly watched his nephew. Noting Davy's timid demeanor and the fearful lines etched on his face, he frowned; his nephew's discomfort was palpable, his intense paranoia noticeable by the way his eyes darted frantically around. Davy was too young to look so troubled, and too old to look so afraid. Al had hoped he was improving—that Hutch's worried phone call was nothing more than a stress-fueled moment of weakness—but seeing Davy now was proof that Hutch's worry wasn't an overreaction, this his concern was more than warranted, and worse, that Hutch probably wasn't worried enough.

Davy had barely looked at him when Al arrived to pick him up, and the ride to the car lot had been uncomfortable to say the least. Al had forced a smile, asking a series of questions that all went unanswered by Davy. When they arrived at the lot, Davy had nervously ignored the greetings of Al's employees—the majority of which, were people he had known for years—quickly shuffling away from the curious stares to the edge of the parking lot to wash cars alone.

Though he didn't want to, Al recognized Davy's odd isolating behavior and it filled him with a mixture of sadness and regret—he hadn't seen it first-hand but readily recalled the hushed details Michael had reported over the phone.

Watching Davy hold the hose lax in his hand, Al's worry intensified. His nephew had been doing that for a while now, staring aimlessly at the car in front of him while the powerful hose sprayed all over the pavement, soaking his shoes and the bottoms of his pants with a thick mixture of soap and water. But Davy didn't seem to be bothered by the building pile of suds, nor did he appear to be aware of it. He didn't seem aware of anything; it was as if he was somewhere else completely.

Davy hadn't been this bad when he was still living with them, Al thought. Though in the weeks he had spent in their home, he and Rosie had privy to the darker side of their nephew's recovery. Nightmares, panic attacks, spontaneous tearful anger, were a few of the behaviors Davy had displayed. But Al quickly realized, that this new version of his nephew was a stranger. He wanted to go to Davy, to remove the hose from his hand and insist he stop acting so strange, to demand that he suddenly become the same person they had all known before. The self-assured, social happy-go-lucky man who never needed to spend much time alone. But instead, Al turned around, leaving his nephew to slowly work though the line of cars.

He had phone call to make.

Xx

Starsky was surrounded by whispers. Hushed and overlapping, the voices murmured a series of repetitive sentences that were almost too soft to hear. Fragmented statements detailing his injuries, a haunting catalog of everything that he endured—what Hutch had done and why. Squinting against the mist ricocheting off of the white truck he was rising, he took a deep breath, counted to ten, and forced himself to ignore the hissing taunts, because standing at the edge of his uncle's car lot, surrounded by pavement and parked cars, he was alone.

 _"He should have finished it,"_ a voice hissed, the first distinguishable sentence of the day. _"You'd be better off dead."_

The voices were a recent development, an unsettling addition to the list of things he'd been careful not to discuss with Doctor Evans at their bi-weekly appointments. Visits, that now, consisted mostly of silence and staring contests; sometimes Evans asked probing questions while Starsky remained quiet, moving nervously around the room. He couldn't talk about what happened, and he wouldn't. Not without selling Hutch out, not without losing what little he had left to hold on to.

 _"But you do want to tell, don't you?"_ the voice asked. _"Whether he was the thing in the dark or not, he was the one who brought you to Marcus. You want to tell. To make him hurt the way he hurt you. To hold him responsible for ruining everything. To make him suffer for not being brave enough to kill you like he did Marcus. He could have ended your pain, but he didn't. He could allowed you to die a hero, but he forced you to live as a victim."_

But Starsky knew telling the truth was impossible—despite what the voice said. Even if he were petty enough to seek revenge on Hutch in such a way, telling the truth meant facing the truth about himself and there was no way he was going to do that. He couldn't be labeled as crazy; he _wouldn't_ allow it—just to spite the truth of what had been done and the fear that still remained.

Doctor Evans knew the truth about his mental stability, she was just avoiding making the official diagnosis. She was privy to his hospital records; she knew what Starsky had suffered at the hands of Marcus and Hutch—no, not Hutch. Someone else. _Something_ else. Something darker. Something evil.—Evans knew he had been taken, held, tortured, and raped, but worse: she knew about his mother.

 _"You are so afraid of being crazy, but fear won't hide the truth now. Avoidance couldn't save your mother and it won't save you."_

Sighing, Starsky loosened his grip on the hose trigger, ceasing the stream of water as he held the nozzle lax at his side, longing to be home, hidden away in his bedroom. Safe and sound behind his deadbolts, muffling the haunting voices by a loud endless stream of daytime TV. His free hand traveled to the side of his face and he absently fingered the edge of the bandage concealing his scar—yet another thing he wasn't ready to contend with. The injury had long healed, the stitches dissolved, the bruising around his jawline faded, but the bandages had become a part of him, because Starsky still remained hesitant—afraid—to look at the scar, to accept the permanent deformity marking his completion. But recently the idea of a scar had become somewhat comforting. It was a prominent reminder—tangible evidence—that Marcus had really died.

If pressed Starsky would say he didn't remember what had happened that day, but he knew. Hutch had killed Marcus, his death retribution for the scar and everything else the man had inflicted.

 _"You'd be better off if he would have killed you."_

Nervously, glancing at the silver Seiko on his wrist, Starsky groaned. Though Al had collected him hours ago, the day seemed to be moving in slow motion. He had long begun to remember how much he hated car washing duty as a teenager. While the job had served a purpose in his teenage years, a convenient way to make extra money when he wanted it, it didn't now. He didn't need the money, nor did he think Al was paying him. The job was more annoying than useful, more frightening than calming, and more infuriating as each moment passed. His sneakers and the bottom of his torn blue jeans were soaked, and despite the warmth of the afternoon, the cold water was leaving him chilled.

 _"You're broken and afraid. Timid and useless."_

Or, maybe, it was the litany of half-heard statements that were evoking the icy shiver creeping up his spine, intensifying the ever-present anxiety pounding in his chest.

 _"You're no good to anybody."_

Starsky took a series of deep breaths, struggling to calm the irate skipping of his heart. He tried not to focus on the voice, how frightening being outside of the secure walls of Venice Place was, or how much being out in the open, unaccompanied and exposed, at the edge of the car lot bothered him. He was alone—vulnerable and susceptible—surrounded by no one but the voices in his head.

 _"You were strong but now you're weak. Afraid of shadows and the dark. Terrified of the man you love and the darkest truth about yourself."_

He fought the urge to abandon the hose and the row of cars awaiting washing and head to the safety of Al's office where he could convince his uncle to take him home. But it was a futile wish, and Starsky dismissed it as quickly as it came. Convincing Al to take him home would require him admit his fear of being outside and force him to confront another: people. The thought of being around people was terror inducing, which was why he was washing vehicles on the edge of Al's property—isolated and alone—instead of doing something more useful, surrounded by Al's employees and customers. Coming into contact with strangers was enough to make his skin crawl. It has hard enough to be around the people he knew, the people he once trusted and hope to trust again, but the thought of being surrounded or even assessed by someone he didn't know was enough to make Starsky's skin crawl. There was no predicating what they wanted, what they would take from him, or who they worked for.

Marcus was dead, but had the darkness lived? Was it waiting in the shadows, planning the perfect moment to reappear, and bring him to his knees?

 _"You'll never recover from this; you know you won't. You can't. You're a victim now. Everyone knows what happened to you. You never said anything, but they know. They know you won't ever be the same. They know you should have died when you had the chance."_

Gripping the hose trigger tightly in both his hands, Starsky aimed it at the truck once more, flinching as its powerful stream hit the side of the door. Closing his eyes, he ignored the voice, focusing instead on the solid sound of the surging water and the crisp droplets peppering his face and clothes. For a moment he felt calm, an elusive sense of peace that he knew wouldn't last. Though the water was enough to drown out the voice, Starsky knew it would return. With a vengeance, the voices would all return.

There was nothing in the world loud enough to silence his own thoughts.

Xx

"I thought you said he was doing better!" Al accused as he stalked from one end of his office to the other. "That you were only a little worried because he hadn't left your apartment in a few days!"

"Yeah, well, that's true," Hutch said, his loud voice unapologetic as he shouted over the scattered chatter and background noise of whatever establishment he was visiting.

"Listen, kid, I don't know who you think you're fooling, but it isn't me! Have you forgotten who I am? I've been a substitute father to Davy since he was twelve years old and I am telling you right now, something is really wrong with the way he's acting. He hasn't gotten better since he moved back in with you, he's getting worse. A lot worse."

"I know," Hutch sighed. The helplessness behind the statement was enough to make Al hesitate in place. "I asked for your help because we need it. I don't know what to do, okay? Is that what you want to hear?"

"No. I want to know what you're doing to help him."

"I gave him his own room," Hutch said weakly.

"That's it?"

"He wanted it. He likes the space."

"What about his psych? Is he still seeing her?"

"Yeah…but," Hutch hedged, "I don't know how much longer that's going to last. I don't think he's talking."

"What makes you say that?"

"Because she called me," Hutch scoffed. "She wants me to come down, comment on the steps he's making at home, and talk about his options for the future."

"Isn't that a little," Al paused, waiving his hand around, "I don't know, _wrong_? I thought doctors weren't allowed to discuss records with outside parties. Privacy policies and all that."

"They aren't. I don't think she has any intension of disclosing records or what they've discussed, I think she has other ideas in mind."

"Like what?"

"Al," Hutch said, voice heavy with exhaustion. "As you know, Starsky and I are not legally married, but I am his power of attorney—"

"What does that have to do with _anything_?"

"It means I can make decisions for him if he's unable of doing so himself. I think Evans wants to talk about looking into other options."

Al absorbed the words like a punch to the stomach, visions of institutions, the after effects of shock treatment, and the side-effects of the drugs employed in the 1980's weighing heavily on his mind. "Do you think Davy needs other options?" he asked instantly, though he was certain he already knew the painful truth.

It was obvious his nephew was struggling with the things he had been through, that he was quickly losing his grip on himself and reality. Davy's mother had been normal once too; one moment she was fine and then somehow she wasn't, and the so called "other options" hadn't done her a bit of good. But Al had no intension of talking about Rachel's struggles, not with the pain of seeing Davy's all-too-familiar behavior throbbing in his chest. And Ken hadn't brought up the similarities between mother and son's sickness, so neither would he.

"I don't know, Al," Hutch said. "You spent the morning with him, you tell me. I don't know what to do anymore. I don't know how to help him, and I want to fix this, but I can't help thinking that I'm only making things worse."

Sighing, Al closed his eyes. He didn't want to think about the Ken without Davy, or how inevitable and fragmented Davy's future had suddenly become. He couldn't stand the thought of history repeating itself, or being forced to watch helplessly as his nephew's hard-earned life was torn away from him piece-by-piece. Davy had been a good cop. He had been strong and capable, feisty and enthusiastic, but after Simon Marcus, not a hint of that man had been left behind. And even if the details of the trauma Davy had endured weren't enough to convince his psychiatrist—or Hutch—that he was in need of involuntary treatment, than his recent behavior coupled with his mother's vast history with mental illness were damning.

"Please don't make any rash decisions," Al said seriously. "And _please_ promise me that if she convinces you to send him somewhere, that you'll discuss it with me and Rosie first."

"Al, I'm not sending him anywhere. I don't care what some shrink has to say about anything, and I have no intension of abandoning him when he needs me the most."

"Just promise me," Al growled.

"Okay, I promise," Hutch vowed readily, but Al was surprised when it did nothing to calm his dread.


	25. Chapter Twenty-Five

**Current Day:**

"How was the car lot today?"

Sitting on the other side of the couch, Starsky shrugged noncommittally at Hutch's question, his disinterested gaze remained frozen on their overly-large flat screen TV. Sitting at his feet, Lucky pressed his body firmly against Starsky's legs, resting his heavily in his lap and exhaling a series of sporadic approving sighs as Starsky's gentle fingers massaged the top of his head and ears.

"That good, huh?" Hutch asked softly, determined to prompt an answer from his quiet partner.

"Fine," Starsky whispered, his numb tone betraying the meaning of the word.

Propping his sock covered feet on the edge of the coffee table, Hutch ignored Starsky's detachment and forced a smile. Despite, his bothersome phone conversation with Al, the day had been good. Keiko had done well at the batting cages and Starsky had left the house. Both events were nothing short of small miracles and worthy of a moment of gratefulness. As was this one, Hutch's smile grew, sitting a cushion away Starsky was absently watching The Tonight Show, and Hutch hadn't even had to coax him out of the bedroom to do so. It was small a step, but a positive one.

"I'm not going back," Starsky mumbled.

"What, babe?"

"I said: I'm _not_ going back."

"Where?"

"To the car lot."

"Oh, okay."

Though he agreed, Hutch had no intention of abiding by the request—not that he had much of a choice in the matter. Al had made it clear that he wanted to see Starsky more—to keep a closer eye on his recovery himself—Hutch wasn't sure how that was going to happen without Starsky spending a little time at the lot, but maybe they could coordinate other things instead. Perhaps, they could reinstate their weekly family dinners or Starsky could spend Saturdays at Rosie and Al's house. He could talk to Huggy too, pick out days and make arrangements for Starsky to spend more time away from the apartment.

Leaning his head on the back of the couch, Hutch suppressed a snort; planning his partner's social calendar it was an odd thing to suddenly devote time to, especially since in the past Starsky had always been the one eagerly filling their free-time. Though odd, it was something he should have done sooner—before the unsolicited phone call from Doctor Evans prompted him into panicked action.

The call had been as unexpected as complicating. Hutch didn't want to meet with her, to discuss Starsky, or anything else. But she had been insistent—near threatening—and he eventually agreed. He had no intension of sharing the parallels of his past and what Starsky had endured, or betraying Starsky and secretly reporting on his behavior at home. If Starsky didn't want to talk about what had happened to him then that was his choice; Hutch remained intent on not forcing the issue. But no amount of willfulness could change the truth: Starsky was not doing well.

Though Al hadn't directly blamed him for Starsky's mental decline, his assessment had been undeniable: Starsky should have never been allowed to get this bad. Hutch shouldn't have waited until Doctor Evans's threating phone call before doing something about it. He had known Starsky wasn't doing well—how could he not. If he had been immune to Starsky's behavior, it wouldn't have lasted long, as Huggy was always pressuring him on the topic—but Hutch had remained paralyzed by what Starsky had endured—what he must had _seen_ —to force Starsky out of his carefully constructed comfort zone.

Hutch had seen the man from his hidden past—whose presence was as unexplainable as everything else—before walking down the stairwell to join Marcus and Starsky in the bunker, and it only made sense that Starsky had seen him too—that he had been hurt by him too. And though months had passed since Starsky disappearance and rescue, Hutch still remained as hesitant to talk about the man as he had been since his father's death. By enabling Starsky's avoidance to talk about Marcus or deal with his residual terror Hutch was allowing himself to run from his role in what had happened, he knew that. Starsky's abduction, the injuries he had sustained, and where he had been held had all been purposefully planned and carefully revealed to him, tiny painful snapshots of the past he had been so hesitant to share.

Talking about Starsky's pain meant revisiting his own, and even if Hutch wanted to finally share what had happened to him years ago, at the hands of a man he'd rather forget, he couldn't, because, now, Starsky was much too unstable to handle the weight of that truth. He was hanging on to sanity by a thread and Hutch refused to add to his struggles, to put Starsky in a position to comfort and sooth the pain of something that happened long ago when his partner remained incapable of managing his own.

And in spite of Hutch's impending meeting with Doctor Evans and Al's furious worry, Starsky had done well today. The first of what Hutch hoped would become a series of successful outings. Maybe all Starsky really needed was some time to himself and then series of solid pushes out of the apartment to encourage him to make more positive steps in the right direction.

"How did Keiko do?" Starsky asked.

"Good." Hutch smiled. "We missed you today, though."

"I'm sure."

"We did. Keiko wanted to toss in the towel after he watched me hit. He told me he would have rather gone to the batting cages with you than me."

"I'm sure he did." Eyes setting on the darkness behind the living room curtains, Starsky frowned uncomfortably and shifted uneasily in his seat. "You set a pretty high standard when it comes to that."

"It was weird not having you there," Hutch admitted softly, ignoring his surge of disappointment over Starsky's tangible discomfort. Though the sun had set hours ago, Starsky's nightly nervousness was finally setting in. It wouldn't be long before he excused himself with a mumble and retired behind the safety of the deadbolts on his bedroom door. "Keiko misses you, and I'm not used to doing stuff with him without you." He smiled. "I have a sneaking suspicion the he likes you more than me. If he didn't before the batting cages, he definitely does now."

Exhaling heartily, Starsky didn't answer, but Lucky wined disappointedly as he moved his hand to pick at the growing frayed hole in the knee of his jeans. Watching warily, Hutch longed to tell him to stop, to cover the nervous fingers with his own and cease the movement himself but unsure of how either action would be accepted by his partner, he ignored it instead.

"I'm too serious. You're the fun guy," Hutch continued softly, longingly. "All happiness and smiles. It easy to have a good time when you're around—"

"I'm tired," Starsky whispered, looking anxiously at the floor.

"Okay."

Waiving Lucky away, Starsky stood, then taking two small steps he lingered in front Hutch. Chin tucked to chest, he held his arms at tense angles as his breath came in a series of shallow inhales. His face was set in an aggrieved expression, some odd combination of anxiety, anger, and agony.

"What?" Hutch asked, peering at him nervously, terrified by Starsky's quick change of mood and what kind of disclosure could possibly warrant such a haunting expression. He looked moments away from a huge revelation and seconds from screaming. Clenching his fists at his sides, Starsky was pained. Eyes wide with fear his body language was dangerous—threatening—and for several long horrible moments Hutch wasn't certain what he would do. "Starsk, what's wrong?" he asked evenly. Leaning forward, he didn't think as he grasped his partner's wrists in both of his hands. "Baby, what's going on?"

Starsky appeared conflicted but didn't pull away. Terrified gaze frozen on Hutch's hands, he cringed as though the contact hurt him, then ground his jaw and shook his head.

"Nothing," he said finally, voice low and gritty as he pulled his arms away. "Good night."

Lips forming a worried line, Hutch watched his partner stride from the room. It wasn't long before Lucky followed and Starsky's bedroom door was firmly closed. Closing his eyes, Hutch rested his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He tried not to flinch as the clicking of deadbolts echoed through the empty hallway, once again leaving him acutely aware of how much things had changed.

Xx

Midnight had come and gone slowly, leaving the dark sky glistening with an array of stars and enveloping the city with calm stillness that only accompanied the nighttime hours. Starsky, however, was immune to such peace. Lying in bed, he tossed and turned, squinting against the soft lamplight illuminating the room, before finally yanking the headphones from his ears with a hearty sigh.

Peering at him, from his spot on the floor, Lucky's ears twitched slightly, seemingly confused by the overly loud music escaping the headphones. The Dalmatian's brows furrowed slightly, watching Starsky toss and turn before kicking the end of the mattress in frustration. Sighing heavily, Lucky stood, walked in a tight circle, and plopped down on the floor with a groan.

"I'm sorry," Starsky whispered, eyeing the exhausted dog regretfully. "Tonight's just..."

Biting his lip, he hesitated, unsure if he wanted to voice exactly why sleep was more elusive tonight than it had been in the past. Sleep didn't come easy these days—not that it could. The music blaring through his headphones and the soft lamplight made it a challenge on best of nights—not that there were many of those, either. There were too many distractions, too many haunting things to remember and consider, and amongst new voices—his terrifying doubts demanding to be heard—another truth was moving to the forefront of his mind. A truth that while relieving was petrifying in its own way.

"I miss him," Starsky admitted softly. Sitting upright, he leaned against the headboard, curling his feet beneath him as he picked at his bandaged covered cheek. Yawning on the floor, Lucky looked unsurprised and unimpressed.

 _"You're afraid of him,"_ a small voice in the back of his head whispered. _"You can't miss someone you fear so much."_

"I think I do," Starsky whispered uncertainly.

 _"You're too angry to miss him."_

Unable to contend with the thought, Starsky frowned. There was no denying he was incredibly angry. How could Hutch have disregarded his fears so actively, and how could he have done what he did? And though he missed Hutch, being around him was sickening, fury inducing—filling him with a rage that was becoming harder and harder to ignore.

 _"You wanted to hug him before bed and you almost hit him instead."_

Grinding his jaw, Starsky shut his eyes. He had done that: stood in front of Hutch, intent on telling him he had missed him during the day too, wanting so badly for his partner to take him into his arms and hold him but he had nearly hit him instead. It was moment of intense insane anger, the ferocity of which he couldn't have possibly foreseen. Looking down at Hutch, finally having the courage to hold his partner's gaze with own, Starsky had felt irrepressible fury. Hutch had felt his anger too, but that hadn't been the worst part of the interaction. It was the way Hutch had looked at him, the mixture of helplessness and sadness, confusion and pity. The look was devastating; it was the same look he had seen directed at his mother when she had been at her worst.

 _"You hate him."_

"No," Starsky denied softly.

 _"You want to love him but you hate him instead."_

"No." His intense anger at Hutch didn't equate to hate, did it?

 _"It does. You know it does."_

"No!" Panic filling his chest, Starsky covered his ears with his hands. It wasn't true. It couldn't be true.

 _"Hutch made you this way. There was always a chance you could end up like her. You knew there was. But Hutch led you to the edge of sanity then pushed into the depths of despair. He made you this way. This is his fault, just like everything else."_

"No!"

 _"You're just like your mother. You're gonna end up just like her…"_

"No!" Starsky screamed.

Pulling his hands from his ears, he looked frantically around the room, needing to do something—anything—to calm his horrible thoughts. He sprung from the bed, intent on pacing, but his feet slipped on the hardwood, lurching his body to land hard against the nightstand. The lamp hit the floor with a crash, enveloping the room in darkness and transforming Starsky's anxiety into terror.

Xx

"NO! ... NO! … NO!"

It was the screaming that woke him. Muffled and pained, it intermixed with Lucky's frantic barking and filled Hutch with fear as he jumped from his bed and rushed into the dimly lit hallway.

"NO!"

The panic in Starsky's tone filled was horrifying. It wasn't the first time his partner's screaming had woken him, but this time was different. Starsky's screams were too high pitched, too terrified to be ignored. He wasn't just screaming, he was sobbing. He could hear Starsky's sporadic thick stuttering inhales among the clicking of Lucky's toenails as the dog paced nervously on the other side of the door.

"NO!"

"Starsky?" Hutch yelled, his fist pounding on dead-bolted bedroom door. "Babe! What's going on?!"

"N-NO!" Starsky screamed once more before he went silent, and Lucky's barking transformed into whimpers of concern.

"Babe!" Hutch pressed his forehead against the door, cursing himself for consenting to the locks preventing him from entering the room. The bedroom was dark. Why was the bedroom dark? Not once since his return had Starsky slept without the lights on. "Talk to me, Starsk!" he demanded. "Answer me!"

His words were met with silence, and unable to contain his worry any longer, Hutch rushed to retrieve the deadbolt keys from his dresser. He didn't want to set Starsky back by dismissing his wishes for privacy, or dissolve what was left of his partner's trust by disclosing the keys he had secretly made, but he had to verify Starsky's safety—regardless of what it would cost him.

Hands shaking and heart pounding, Hutch fumbled with the keys. Groaning in frustration, he felt precious minutes slip away before he finally unlocked the last deadbolt and opened the door.

Gripping the doorknob tightly, he lingered in the doorway, breathing heavily as he looked frantically around. Illuminated by the dim ambient lights filtering in from the hallway, nothing in the bedroom looked widely out of place—except for the broken lamp, laying in pieces scattered across the hardwood floor, and Starsky. Back pressed firmly against the wall, he was huddled on the floor. Legs tucked to his chest, forehead on his knees, and hands pressed to his ears, Starsky was rocking slightly. A strange motion that Lucky was watching, brows furrowed, his large brown eyes sparkled with concern.

"Babe?" Hutch asked.

Snapping his gaze to Hutch, Lucky rushed to him, closing his eyes as Hutch reached out to run his palm absently over his head. Rubbing his body against Hutch's legs, the dog whined, shifting his weight to quickly herd Hutch to Starsky's side.

"Starsky?"

Each step he took, left Hutch feeling more and more like an intruder, but he had come too far to turn back now. And even if he could he wouldn't; despite what Starsky said he wanted, his partner was much too upset to be left alone. For one solid second Hutch wondered how the lamp had been broken, then the question vanished, erased by the faint noise filling his ears. Starsky was whimpering, a soft helpless moaning that was almost too soft to be heard. Hutch cringed at the unfamiliar sound. Starsky never whimpered, even in intense pain, nor had Hutch ever seen him try to make himself quite so small.

"Baby?"

Crouching, Hutch reached his hand to grasp Starsky's shoulder, then hesitated, momentarily frozen by the uncertainty of his partner's response. Would Starsky be comforted by his presence or tormented? Would his touch help or hinder whatever horrible feelings Starsky was experiencing? Either way it didn't matter; he couldn't leave him cowering on the floor. Placing his hands gently over Starsky's, he slowly pulled his partner's hands from his ears—he forced himself to ignore how Starsky jumped at the contact, or how rigid with fear his body had become.

"Hey," Hutch whispered. Clasping Starsky's shoulders, he struggled to keep his tone light and even. "What's going on?"

"I…" Starsky hesitated, voice thick with fear and confusion as he peered at Hutch with panic filled eyes.

"What happened to the lamp, huh?"

Swallowing thickly, Starsky looked numbly around the room.

"Hey," Hutch prompted. Struggling to maintain his partner's wayward gaze, he didn't think as he moved his thumbs to wipe at the tears streaking Starsky's face. The familiar action was as automatic as breathing, as natural as anything would ever be.

"Don't," Starsky whimpered. Grasping Hutch's wrists weakly, he assessed them with wide tear-filled eyes as he prevented his partner's fingertips from coming any closer than millimeters from damp bandage covering his cheek.

Hutch's stomach lurched. He shouldn't have been so brazen—how could he have allowed himself to make such a terrible mistake—of course Starsky didn't want him to touch him; he didn't even want him in the room.

"I don't like it," Starsky whispered, lower lip quivering. "I don't _want_ —" Voice cracking, he looked helplessly around the dark corners of the room.

"I'm sorry."

"I _can't_ ," Starsky said, voice garbled by the thickness of his throat. "I can't."

"You can't what?" Hutch asked, unconsciously reaching out to touch him once more.

"NO!" Starsky screamed. He tried to move from the impending touch but pressing his back firmly against the wall he had nowhere to go. "I can't," he sobbed. "I can't…I can't…" Pressing his palms into his eyes sockets, he shook his head helplessly.

Legs cramping, Hutch sat heavily on the floor. He didn't know what to say to make Starsky feel better, and he wasn't sure he should try. Starsky's violent sobs were as haunting as they were uncharacteristic. Starsky never cried, and when he did it was never like this. Except for that day in the bunker, when he cowered in terror, rushing away from Hutch to cling to Marcus's body. The memory came rushing back with a vengeance, filling his eyes with unwanted tears. Hutch swiped angrily at his face. It wouldn't do either of them any good if he broke down too. He was supposed to be stronger than this; he needed to be if he was going help Starsky move passed this.

And he was going to move past this, Hutch thought stubbornly; they both were.

Powerless to comfort his crying partner, Hutch busied himself by cleaning up the broken lamp. Switching on the overhead bedroom light before leaving the room to gather the trash can and broom from the kitchen. He threw the lamp away—struggling to ignore Starsky's shuddering breaths—discarding it in the bin, smashed piece by piece, and then sweeping the scattered debris off the floor. He reprimanded himself for not anticipating the need for a spare bedside light—the overhead fixtures were much too bright to ever allow Starsky to sleep—and just as he had begun wondering how much it would cost to have dimming lights installed in the bedrooms, Hutch glanced at Starsky to find him tracking his movements.

Starsky's tears had waned but his eyes were tired and bloodshot. Back still pressed against the wall, he blinked sleepily, arms wrapped around his legs, chin resting on his knees.

"Hi," Hutch said, forcing an awkward smile.

"Hi," Starsky croaked. "How'd you get in here?"

"I might have had some extra keys."

Starsky snorted.

"You were screaming, you remember that?"

Starsky nodded.

"You were," Hutch said, still needing to justify his foreign presence. He felt guilty for being in the room, for rushing to comfort his partner only to frighten him instead. They shouldn't be here, he thought madly. How had they gotten here?

"I can't do it, Hutch."

Tears filled Hutch's eyes as Starsky repeated his earlier plea. Though his voice was quiet there was certainly to his tone, a hint of strength that had been absent for far too long.

"I know," Hutch whispered thickly, barely able to say a word. This was the moment he had been dreading all along, since Starsky had refused to allow him to visit in the hospital, since the moment his partner had finally agreed to come home. He knew then it couldn't work, and it didn't work—the pieces of each other that had fit so well together before Marcus, had been broken off, leaving them mismatched and fragmented. Two pieces of a puzzle helplessly adrift with pain too similar to fit together, both frantically hoping the wounds of the other would suddenly shift, allowing them to bind together and pulling the large picture of their lives back into view.

Hutch had tried but the pain lurking in his past was too much to help Starsky contend with what Marcus had done. As Marcus had taunted months before: how was he supposed to help Starsky heal from something he himself had never been able to recover from? How could he assist Starsky with sorting through the fear and pain attached to the experiences he suffered in the bunker on Marcus's land when Hutch had never been able to work through his own—events and experiences, lingering pain and deep scars he still remained intent on denying ever existed.

"I can't," Starsky repeated, affirming his words with a nod.

"I'm sorry." Choking on tears, Hutch turned to go. He couldn't bear to continue to look at Starsky, to listen to him repeat the same horrible words. They both understood what he was saying, why did Starsky insist on repeating it?

"I can't…" Starsky said as Hutch reached the door way. "…be like her."

Turning in place, Hutch gripped the doorframe in both his hands. "What?" he breathed.

"I won't," Starsky said stubbornly. His eyes were clouded over, heavy with memories of another time and place. "She used to scream like that too, wake us up in the middle of the night. It used to scare the shit out of me and Nicky because Dad wasn't around anymore to calm her down."

"Who used to scream?"

"I can't be like her," Starsky repeated, shaking his head. "I won't."

"That's what you can't do," Hutch sighed, shoulders sinking with relief. Starsky's repetitive words weren't heart-wrenching good-bye, they were a veiled disclosure.

"You can't let me go crazy, Hutch. I need to you be strong enough to do for me what Dad used to do for her…I think…. I think if you're strong enough to do it, then I might be okay." Holding Hutch's gaze, Starsky's eyes sparkled with sobering clarity. "I don't think I'm as afraid of you as I was before, but I'm angry." Inhaling deeply, he exhaled slowly, his eyes brimming with furious tears. "I'm so _fucking_ angry at you, and you're going to have to be strong enough to accept that for a while."

"Okay," Hutch whispered. Captive to the strange stillness of the moment, his previous trepidation had vanished. Starsky wasn't asking him to walk away, he was asking for help. It wasn't an end it was beginning—another chance he didn't deserve.

"I need you to see what's happening, Hutch," Starsky pleaded. "I _can't_ go on like this, and I can't…" voice failing, Starsky looked at the floor. Breathing heavily as fresh tears stung his raw, red cheeks. His previous fit had left him tired and spent but not out of tears.

"You can't be her," Hutch finished, voice quiet but firm as he strode across the room. Crouching in front of his partner, he gripped Starsky's forearm tightly, stroking his thumb over the short dark hairs. "You won't be," he vowed. "I won't let you."

It would be different now, Hutch promised himself. He would deal with the pain lurking in his past—the memories of the horrible events his father's sudden death had awoken—and discarding the ghost of his past, he would finally be strong enough to save them both.


	26. Chapter Twenty-Six

**Current Day:**

"I don't understand why you want to talk to him," Starsky said quietly.

Sticking his hands deep into his jean pockets, he paced Doctor Evans's office, his nervous gaze setting sporadically on the woodgrain door. Hutch was behind that door, sitting in the waiting room doing God only knew what. He never was any good at waiting, not outside Dobey's office to give a verbal report, and especially not behind closed doctor office doors with Starsky hidden away on the other side.

Hutch being in the waiting room was not a common occurrence. Normally, he dropped Starsky off in the parking lot, silently entrusting him to attend his appointments alone. It was a quick walk into the building and a short ride in the elevator to up to Evans's suite. It was a small gesture, but they both knew that each time Starsky arrived to his appointment on time and alone was a victory—being surrounded by strangers in close confines was no longer an easy feat—a small step in much larger journey which would eventually leave Starsky feeling—and acting—normal again.

"Or why you had to do it today," he grumbled, absently rubbing the tips of his fingers over the bandage covering his cheek.

What was Hutch doing behind the door? Making a mental list of Starsky's odd behaviors he couldn't wait to divulge, or was he silently preparing himself to dodge the probing questions Evans was certain to ask?

"Today is as good as any," Evans said, turning to stride to the other end of the room. She was employing a new tactic, one that was intended to put Starsky at ease and coax him into speaking but annoyed him instead. If Starsky paced then Evans paced. Beginning at the end of the room, opposite of the one he chose, she duplicated his strides, speaking as she reached each end of the room, and insisting he paused his movement to answer her questions as they passed each other in the center. "I'm sorry if the thought of us meeting makes you uncomfortable."

"It doesn't make me uncomfortable."

Knowledge of Hutch's impending meeting was enough to make Starsky angry and nervous but not uncomfortable. While his nervousness was inexplicable—a common theme these days—his anger was more easily explained. He didn't like the thought of Evans reaching out to Hutch intent on discussing him like he was a screwed up kid, or an unstable adult unable to make decisions on his own. He wasn't either of those things.

"How does it make you feel?" Evan's probed as they paused to stand in front of each other in middle of the room.

"Annoyed."

"Just annoyed?"

"Bothered."

Starsky shrugged, resuming his footsteps. Movement soothed him; being allowed to pace was the only thing that made his bi-weekly appointments bearable, and Evans's questions easily avoidable as he moved disinterestedly around the room. But that was before Evans had to ruin things, exploiting his coping mechanism to benefit their appointments. If it had been a different time in his life, he probably would have thought the tactic was clever, an innovative ploy to trick him into talking. He couldn't ignore her questions when she was looking him in the eye, and he couldn't hide his quick reactionary expressions as she gently and proficiently struck nerve after nerve.

"You can sit in on the meeting, you know," she said as they stared at each other from the across the room.

"No."

"Are you sure? You might learn something new about Hutchinson if you did."

"I'm sure."

The thought of being present in the meeting was almost worse than the thought of being absent; there was no way he could tolerate listening while Evans probed Hutch. Not that Hutch was going to say anything—Starsky was quick to remind himself—he couldn't. Not without incriminating himself in the crimes that had been committed, and not without violating doctor-to-patient confidentially laws. Of course—Starsky hastened his movement as a terrifying thought crossed his mind—there were laws preventing Evans from confiding in Hutch, but did they prevent Hutch from confiding in her?

"Can he talk to you about me?" he asked.

"I thought that was the point of the meeting."

"I didn't," Starsky whispered, suddenly feeling very unsure about what was to come. What had happened months ago aside, his partner wouldn't betray him by reporting his worrisome home behavior, would he? Starsky shook his head, struggling to clear the thought. Hutch would never do that.

"Does that make you nervous?" Lingering paces away, Evans assessed him thoughtfully.

Starsky shrugged, too anxious to force another lie.

"Are you afraid of what he might say about you?"

"No." This lie came quickly, an automatic face-saving response to prevent him from considering his deepest fear.

The night prior, Hutch had vowed to help, to propel him forward, and help him regain his grip on sanity. He wouldn't betray his promise so quickly. Not by disclosing condemning deals of Starsky's continuing terror and avoidance, and not by confiding in Evans the crushing worry he knew Hutch was feeling—the paralyzing alarm his own behavior had awoken.

"If I tell you something do you promise not to think too hard about it?" Starsky whispered, the memory of another ill-disclosed detail springing to mind.

Hutch had heard him screaming last night. No, not screaming: _responding_ to the voice in head. It wasn't as though he had engaged in a whole conversation with the voice, just projected a series of loud screams. But those screams had been a word—a repetitive, grief-filled word—that, coupled with the broken lamp had dissolved Starsky into a sobbing, incoherent mess, and, now, he couldn't remember when Hutch had entered his bedroom. One moment he wasn't there and the next he was, and Starsky was terrified by what he didn't know—what he couldn't seem to remember. Had Hutch heard him say something else to the voice; had he responded with more than a single word?

Tucking him tightly into bed, before leaving the room, Hutch hadn't asked Starsky to explain his meltdown—his tears or what he had said—but what if that was because he was planning on asking Evans about it instead?

"David?" she prompted.

"I've been hearing voices lately," he said, exhaling the words in one breath before he lost his nerve.

Evans looked alarmed. "How long has this been going on?"

"Not long. A few weeks."

"What kind of voices?"

"Um… _mean_ … I guess." Turning to face the bookcase, Starsky played nervously with the hem of his t-shirt.

"Are they threatening?"

"Not really."

"Do they tell you to do things?"

"No." Starsky shrugged. It never told him to do things; the voice seemed only intent on reciting the truth. "It's not really _voices_. It's just one."

"What does it say to you?"

Starsky shook his head, unprepared repeat what had been said. He couldn't; not without linking Hutch to his abduction, and not without disclosing the terror of what he had seen. How could he tell the truth about the entity that hid in the darkness of Marcus's property? How it had hurt and tortured him while using Hutch's face and voice to cover its own? How could he possibly explain the events in a way that someone would understand? He wasn't sure he understood, but he knew one thing for certain: he could never be the same.

"My mom heard voices," he whispered numbly.

"I know."

"She was normal, you know? Then one day she wasn't."

"And you're afraid that same thing is happening to you."

"It's hard not to."

"Are you experiencing any other symptoms?"

Starsky shrugged, a number of his startling behaviors springing to mind. Paranoia, isolation, anger, anxiety, the list went on and on. All things he had been willing to ignore, behavior easily dismissed when weighting the devastation of what had been done. But that was before the voice—the one that sounded a lot like him but said things he didn't want to say and seemed intent on making him feel things he didn't want feel.

Marcus had warned him that this would happen—while the darkness taunted him with his greatest fear— he was going to slowly lose his mind, just like his mother. The illness was in his family—it was in his genes—there was no avoiding what was happening now—no denying what his life was going to become. Even if Hutch wanted to help he wouldn't be able to. The intense trauma he had experienced had awoken a monster, something he always worried was lying dormant inside of him. His mother had been normal, and then one day she wasn't. The transformation hadn't been clean, but it had been fast.

"David, if you're experiencing any other symptoms you need to tell me," Evans said seriously. "You've been through a very traumatizing experience and coupled with your family history, things like this cannot be ignored. A spontaneous onset of schizophrenia is not something you can wish away. But it isn't the end of the world either. There's treatment, medication—"

"I know all about what can be done," Starsky said sadly. "And even more about what can't."

Pursing her lips, Evans turned in place and glanced at the clock on the wall. "Our time is up for today," she whispered, silently cursing the afternoon hour for necessitating the words. "If you are experiencing any other symptoms, you need to tell me," she repeated. "Believe me, if you're intent on ignoring them, they won't stay hidden for long."

Starsky's stomach flipped helplessly at the resignation of her words, but seeing Evans share his worry about the voice and his impending mental illness didn't feel the way he had expected it to. Somehow he felt lighter, validated, and slightly less afraid. While he wasn't able to contend with the horrors of the past, he didn't have to anticipate his uncertain future alone.

"Hutch doesn't know," he said, soft voice guilty. He wanted his partner to be aware of his family's history, but he didn't have the words to tell the truth. How do you tell someone that instead of improving, the things that were bad were only going to get worse?

"About what?"

"What happened to my mother—what might be happening to me."

"Are you asking me to tell him for you, or keep it a secret?"

"I'm asking you not to tell him—"

"I don't think that's wise," Evan interrupted, her firm voice insistent. "He needs to know."

"He can't know," Starsky whispered, renewed panic rising in his chest. She couldn't tell Hutch—he couldn't stand the thought of him knowing. Maybe someday but not now. Not when he needed him so badly, not when things were so unsettled between them. What Hutch found out and instead of supporting him he chose to walk away? "I need him."

"And needs the truth to understand how to help you."

Exhaling heavily, Starsky's face contorted with apprehension as his fingers moved absently to nervously pick on the bandage on his face.

"You're going to have stop doing that," Evans commented, watching him carefully. "It's turning into a habit, and when you finally summon courage to take the bandage off you're going to start picking at your face."

Hand dropping to his side, Starsky looked scandalized. How dare she draw attention to behavior they had never discussed before? It wasn't as though he wanted to touch the bandage, obsessively tearing it to shreds by the end of the day, the action was unconscious—he hadn't realized he was doing it.

"You can't tell him," Starsky said emphatically, stubbornly grasping to the one thing he had control over. She couldn't disclose his condition to Hutch if he refused to give her consent.

"Fine," Evans conceded, helplessly shaking her head. "Are you going to sit in while I talk to your partner or are you going to wait outside?"

Starsky stared at her a moment, eyes flashing with anger and stubbornness as he ground his jaw. Telling Hutch his decision; how dare she try to take it from him?

"I'm going to wait."

And she led him from the office, Evans found herself hoping he wouldn't wait too long.

Xx

"Hey, buddy," Hutch said. He frowned as he stood; discarding a magazine with a ripped cover on a small table between chairs and noting the mournful expression Starsky was struggling to conceal. "What's wrong?"

Sinking into a chair, Starsky propped his elbows on his knees and silently shook his head. Opening his mouth to press the topic, Hutch closed it instead, his wide eyes settling on Doctor Evans as she watched them paces away. Though it had been years since they'd seen each other, time hadn't changed her much. Petite and pretty, she still looked young for her age, and her smile was the same, kind and easy with potential to turn forceful at a seconds notice. But she remained as dangerous as she had been when Hutch had seen her last.

Apprehension gathered in the pit of his stomach and Hutch cursed himself for not being more aware—for not taking a more active role in Starsky's therapy—he should have known Evans was his partner's psychiatrist before seeing her in person. He should have recognized her name or voice, when she called to request a meeting. He should have known it was her before this moment but he hadn't.

"We should talk," she said, head tilting toward her vacant office.

Entering the office did nothing to ease Hutch's nervousness, and his discomfort compounded as soon as Evan shut the door behind them. Sticking his hands in his pockets, he looked around the room, absently wondering how many hours had he spent in offices like this over the years. Not enough—he was certain—but far too many to count.

"It's been so long since we've spoken," Evans said softly, standing next to the twin chairs in the center of the room. "Should I be professional and refer to you as Mr. Hutchinson or are you still going by Ken?"

"You can call me Hutch," he said, face guarded. "Everyone else does."

"Hutch," Evans repeated with small smile. "I suppose that's fitting."

"How so?"

"Ken never really seemed to fit you, and I supposed rejecting your father's surname is natural—"

"I didn't reject anything; it's just a nickname. Nothing more, nothing less."

Evans nodded, but Hutch knew his explanation had been unbelieved. She was agreeing for his benefit, dropping the topic to appease his fear. She always was a good listener and keen observationalist. She was friendly and warm, kind but honest, all qualities that provided her ample leeway when making suggestions to others that would impact their behavior and lives for the better. He remembered thinking that she would excel psychiatry, and seeing the framed awards and diplomas on the wall, it was clear that she had.

"Do you want to sit?" she asked, indicating at the chairs.

Hutch cringed. If history had taught him anything, it was that it was better to stand. It was easier to avoid uncomfortable questions and mask reactions if he moved around the room. "I'd prefer not to."

"Well, whatever you prefer."

Ignoring her inquisitive stare, Hutch turned his attention to the tall bookcases. Smoothing his index finger over the books at eye level, he momentarily paused to inspect a few. A handful of the titles he recognized, but there were far too many titles—dealing with sensitive injuries and crimes—he was taken aback to see. Though they shouldn't be a surprise, he reminded himself; Evans was extremely specialized, as she worked primarily with victims of violent crimes, rape, and sexual abuse. When she had asked him for a meeting she had cited concern for Starsky's recovery, worry Hutch was certain was born from Starsky's unwillingness—his inability—to communicate what he had been through, but now he wasn't so sure. While he had been shocked to see Evans, it was clear she hadn't been surprised to see him. And he couldn't help questioning if he was here to discuss Starsky's injuries or if had she lured him here to discuss his own?

"Are you sure you don't want to sit?" she asked again.

Avoiding the question, Hutch pointed at one of her many diplomas. While he wasn't eager to acknowledge the past, Evans showed no indication of broaching the subject, and he had no interest in continuing to dance around the subject—suffocating on apprehension as he choked on the fear over what she knew.

"Berkeley," he said and cluster of memories suddenly rushed back, leaving him lightheaded, breathless, and struggling to maintain his composure.

How different would his life if he wouldn't have become a police officer? And how different would he feel if he hadn't agreed to meet with Evans today?

"Berkeley's psychology program is highly ranked," Evans said calmly. "Second in the nation. Then again, you already know that. It wasn't so long ago that you and I were in the same class." She smiled. "I had a feeling you didn't know that I was the one treating David."

"I didn't recognize you," Hutch admitted, eyes shining stubbornly. He hadn't come here for a reunion, and he had no intention on undermining Starsky by reporting on him like a child. "And I don't press him about his visits. Who he's seeing and what he says are both up to him."

"I didn't know it was you, at least not at first," Evans said, ignoring the ferocity of his words. "When I was preparing for my first visit with David, I came across your name in his records. I thought it was you, but wasn't certain until much later on." She paused, looking at him thoughtfully. "What happened with school, Ken? One minute you were then and next you were gone. Your absence was sudden, unexpected, ill-explained."

Looking at the floor, Hutch stifled a snort. The idea that he owed anyone an explanation for leaving Berkeley was ridiculous, but Evans expecting one was ludicrous. They both knew the event that had spurred him to leave.

"I've thought about that night a thousand times," she continued sadly. "Questioning if I could have said something differently or wondering what would have happened if I had never opened those files. If there was anything that would have prevented you from vanishing into thin air."

"I don't think of it at all," Hutch snapped, scandalized she dare bring it up. "And I hardly vanished. I didn't leave the city. I just changed my mind. It didn't have anything to do with you or what you saw. I finally decided to live my life for myself instead of my father."

Evans nodded, another automatic affirming motion accompanying her visible disbelief. Holding her gaze Hutch realized that she didn't believe his reasoning for leaving school any more than he believed her concern over Starsky had prompted their sudden reunion.

"You left because you were intimidated by what I knew," Evans said knowingly. "You came to California to hide from your past and begin a new life. You couldn't bear the thought of someone knowing, of being looked at like a victim again. How earth did you pull it off, Ken?"

"What?"

Body alive with agitation, Hutch felt stuck in a dream. How could this be happening? How could someone he hadn't seen in nearly ten years suddenly reappear, speaking about his motivations with such candor, as though they were known to the world? Evans didn't know how he had felt—she couldn't possibly know how he still felt about his past—but somehow she did.

"How did you pass the psychiatric exam? We both know if the police academy knew what you were hiding they would have never allowed you to become what you are."

"Right." Hutch bristled. "Well, we're not here to talk about me," he tilted his head at the closed door, "we're here to talk about Starsky."

"Maybe we can talk about both of you."

"Not today. You're his psychiatrist not mine."

"You're not dismissing the idea. You would be open to talking to me?"

"No," Hutch said firmly. "Listen, Kim, I have shrink, okay? A guy I go see every month to make sure my head stays on straight. I'm fine."

Evans was unconvinced. "Do you think I don't remember the details, Ken? The horrible things you endured? Do you think for second that I haven't put two and two together? David's injuries and the place Simon Marcus held him, they were modeled after _something_. You and I both know what that is. A bomb shelter in the Midwest, the place you were held when you were abducted as a child."

"No," Hutch whispered. "This isn't about me. What happened to Starsky has nothing to do with what happened to me."

Though he said the words, they did little erase the truth. He couldn't believe what was happening—the absolute impossibility of it all. How could all these small details—long forgotten or repressed moments—suddenly be reemerging, coming together to shatter his life?

He hadn't wanted to disclose his past so Marcus had used it against him. He didn't want people to know the truth so Marcus had made it impossible to hide. Leaving Starsky struggling to overcome events he never should have had to endure and Hutch still hyper-focused on the people who didn't know about his past and disregarding the people who did. He should have kept track of Evans better; he shouldn't have put himself in a position to be caught off guard by someone who was privy to his past.

"Are you sure?" Evans challenged softly. "Or are you just trying to hide your role in something that quickly got out of hand?"

Hutch flinched. He wasn't sure why things had unfolded the way they had. His pain and guilt were continuous reminders of all the things he would never be sure of. He didn't know the extent of his role in what Marcus had done to Starsky, how the man had known anything he had, or how the bomb shelter on the compound had come to be. He didn't know how long it was going to take for Starsky to feel better or if they would ever be the same. But he knew Starsky needed him—they needed each other—neither of them could move passed what had happened on their own.

"Why did you bring me here?" he asked, voice low but a hint of anger behind his words. "To make veiled comparisons and accusations about things you know nothing about?"

For a moment, Evans looked guilty. Dropping her gaze to the floor, she shook her head. "I'm worried about David. I brought you here in the hopes the three of us could speak together, but he's not ready for that."

"Is he talking about what happened?"

"He's beginning to, but don't ask for details because I can't tell you."

"Then why I am I here?" Hutch repeated, holding his hands up exasperatedly as he lost control of his anxiety. "Why are you wasting my time with any of this—?"

"I needed to see you, to reconcile what happened to him and what happened to you. It's been _months_ , Ken. His progress has been so slow—which believe me—I expected. It's always a challenge to move past the types of injuries he sustained, sometimes impossible for men, like him, who build their lives and hinge their careers on being resilient and strong—"

"He's strong," Hutch insisted.

"I needed to ensure you weren't hindering him. I needed to know that his fear for you was invalid. Knowing what I know about your past, coupled with the details of what he endured, I need to make sure that…" mouth closing suddenly, Evans's face contorted with an odd expression as she abruptly turned around.

Though she hide her face and stifled her sentence, it didn't make Hutch immune to the words she didn't say. He knew what she thought, the horrible accusation still floating around in everyone's mind. Dobey, John Blaine, even Starsky, all believed he had chosen for this to happen—that his pursuance of Simon Marcus, his odd obsession with the man had driven him mad—and standing in front of Evans he knew she felt the same. Her knowledge of his past was too damning to be ignored.

"You needed to see me for yourself," he said. He felt sick; his stomach churned and bile rose in his throat, making his voice deep and gravely. "Because everyone knows what happens to kids who experience the things I did. They grow up to be monsters, and you wanted to make sure I wasn't some psychopath hiding behind a badge. But you're _wrong_. I wouldn't wish the pain I experienced on _anybody_."

Hutch longed to say that he would never do anything to hurt Starsky but that fact that was no longer true—it hadn't been true for a while. He had brought Starsky to Marcus, he had allowed the events to unfold. But even before that he had been hurting Starsky. His need to hide the past, his intense shame, and violent anger toward his father had been hurting Starsky long before Marcus ever knew his name. But in the end, Marcus had shattered them both, leaving Starsky almost too afraid to contend with pain, and Hutch too guilty to force him to try.

"Do you think I'm hindering him?" he asked. "Do you really think that if I was hurting him—if I did this to him—that he'd be brave enough to stay?"

Turning, Evans eyes sparkled with seriousness. "I think the two of you have a very complex relationship; there are a lot of issues at play here. Whether you admit it or not, your avoidance of the past has manifested, making it impossible for you to view his pain without relating it to your own. And with what David's up against, I don't know if that's going to serve him well in the end."

"What are you talking about?" Hutch frowned.

"I can't tell you specifics, but this is serious, Ken. You need to be mindful of his behavior. If you see anything out of place or if he seems to be deteriorating, then you need to tell me. Don't wait until it's too late to admit what's happening before your eyes."

Gaze fixing on the door across the room, Hutch longed to gather Starsky from the waiting room and escape to their apartment where they both could hide themselves away. Safe and sound, unaffected by the judgement of outsiders who could never understand their love for each other, or their agony. Evans believed he was incapable of handling Starsky's pain and Marcus thought him incapable of telling the truth, but he would prove them both wrong—and so would Starsky.

"You have no idea who we really are. Who we were together or what we'll be again," he growled, brows narrowing as he looked at Evans stubbornly. "Are we done here?"

"Yes," Evans said, but her eyes flashed with conflict as she watched him stride to the door. "I lied to you," she added quickly. Taking a step forward as he hesitated in place, exhaling impatiently.

"What?"

"You asked me why I asked you here." She paused as Hutch turned, his face frozen with unexpressed worry. "I work for the police department," she continued, forcing the words before she lost her nerve. "I didn't request this meeting because I wanted to. I did it because I was told to. Chief Ryan and Captain Dobey are very worried about David's safety, about how he was taken and how he was found. I'm sorry; whatever lie you based your career on wasn't enough to survive the speculation of what has been done, and it isn't enough to bury your past from people who are intent on uncovering it."

"What do they know?" Hutch croaked, heart pounding ferociously in his chest.

"Everything. They know everything."

TBC


	27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

**Current Day:**

The ride home was quiet and tense; neither Starsky nor Hutch ventured a word.

Normally, Hutch would have been unnerved by his partner's silence, however, with Doctor Evans's words echoing in his mind, he gave Starsky's despondency little thought. In fact, preoccupied with the details of his hidden past and, now, seemingly nonexistent future with Bay City PD, Hutch found himself grateful for the quiet. It was better to not have to force a smile or cheerful conversation—he didn't have the strength to coax Starsky through another difficult afternoon or the courage to ignore his own anxiety in order to calmly contend with his partner's.

He was anything but calm and felt far from strong. Carefully omitting facts and cleverly disguising details had done nothing for him in the end, because Chief Ryan and Captain Dobey knew everything.

Silently unlocking the door to Venice Place, Hutch was taken aback when Starsky grasped his hand and squeezed it tightly as he followed him up the stairs and into their bedroom lined hallway. If he wouldn't have been so nervous, Hutch would have found the action comforting—it was a small reassurance that Starsky's fear of him was ebbing, that he was finally making strides to trust him again. But lingering in the hallway as Lucky rushed from the living room to greet them, Hutch found himself haunted by all the things Starsky didn't know—all the small secrets he had told over the years were all piled on top of each other, fused together to form the lie that was his life. And suddenly he knew: he had to tell Starsky to truth before someone else did—before Dobey, Ryan or Evans began carefully disclosing the damning details of a past Hutch had tried his best to bury and leave behind.

"I slept with Doctor Evans," Hutch said, cringing as he blurted the words. He hadn't meant to say it so crassly, revealing a delicate detail in such a rushed insensitive way. But it felt good to get the information off his chest; it was a small bit of honesty that would pave the way for the rest of the truth.

"Today?" Starsky asked, crouching to pet the overexcited dalmation.

"No. A long time ago."

"Then why are you telling me?"

"I don't know," Hutch mumbled, suddenly threatened by his partner's disinterested response.

Maybe Starsky wasn't ready for the truth. Or worse: maybe Starsky didn't want to hear details about Hutch that would fracture the stanch, dependable image of his partner in his mind. But still, the admission of his relations with Evans was worthy of a little irritation on Starsky's part. If Hutch would have been in his partner's position he would been a little annoyed—threatened even—at the prospect of continuing therapy with a woman whom Starsky had slept with—someone who had known Starsky at a different time in his life and who was bound to know details about him that Hutch would never be privy to.

Biting his bottom lip, Hutch watched Lucky furiously waive his tail as he eagerly accepted Starsky's pats, Hutch was overcome by how wrong the situation really was. It wasn't right that Starsky—his best friend, lover, and husband—didn't know about his past but Evans did.

Who had Evans been to him anyway? A previous classmate and a long discarded friend. He had never cared for her the way he did Vanessa, and he hadn't loved her the way he loved Starsky. He hadn't loved her at all. And that was why, when he had a woken to find her absorbed in the secret medical files he had unwisely kept hidden under his bed, he hadn't been angry or afraid. He had been relieved.

He never wanted the life his father had meticulously planned for him. Richard had hoped that studying and practicing psychology would make Hutch immune to the past. That by helping others cope with their darkest demons, he could learn how to contend with his own. But the plan was destined to fail from the start. Hutch hadn't wanted to study psychology or attend a prestigious school. In hindsight, he was grateful for Evan's innocent nosiness. Had she never discovered the files, he never would have had a convenient excuse to leave.

Hutch had dropped his classes at Berkeley and friendship with Evans without a second thought. Of course, Lucas Huntley had helped that decision along. Feeling an immediate kinship, Huntley vowed to protect Hutch in way that hadn't been so different from what Richard had tried—and failed—to do. And Huntley's willingness to help him remained as extraordinary and inexplicable as it had been the day he had offered; and in the end, Huntley he had done what his father couldn't: he had pointed Hutch in the direction of a fulfilling life.

But even so, past reasoning didn't excuse current behavior. It didn't change the guilt churning in Hutch's stomach, and it didn't change the fact that Evans knew details about him that Starsky should have been entitled to.

"I'm telling you about Evans because I love you," Hutch said righteously. "And I thought you should know."

He was disappointed when his declaration was promptly ignored, but still his statements inspired more of an interrogation than Starsky was going to pursue. Questions that demanded answers that seemed destined to be left undisclosed. Like how he could have possibly slept with Evans when he moved to Bay City engaged to Vanessa, or why he had left Berkeley behind.

"It was just after Vanessa left," Hutch quietly explained. "I was still taking grad courses at Berkeley. Kim—Evans—came over to study one night and it just... happened."

Starsky looked disinterested. Mouth frozen in a stubborn frown, his tense body language seemed to beg the question: _why should I care?_

"It only happened once," Hutch continued, captive to the memory.

His apartment had been a mess, half-cleaned with moving boxes stacked in tall haphazard piles, in preparation for his move to the beach house. _"Where are you running off to?"_ Evans had coyly asked, her playful tone missing its mark. Hutch hadn't intended to run away—he was just moving—but his intense need to escape was debilitating. He needed new surroundings to bury his reemerging pain—the crippling devastation awakened by Vanessa's sudden confirming absence. She couldn't love him after knowing what he had survived, and neither would anyone else—his father had been right all along.

"It was just the one time," Hutch repeated, tone distracted. "I left school not long after—"

"Hey!" Starsky demanded, pointing an index finger at his closed bedroom door. "Where are my locks?"

Stifling a groan, Hutch looked at the door with renewed regret. He should have spoken to Starsky prior to removing the locks, he should have made his partner feel as though he had some kind of control over the final decision, instead of having Huggy oversee the covert replacement of the door while they were gone. It was a cowardly decision, but one Hutch would defend. He would not have a repeat of the night before. He wouldn't be forced to hear Starsky's terrified screams as he struggled with deadbolts, fear filling his chest and panicked thoughts racing through his mind.

He wouldn't do it again—he couldn't.

"They had to go, Starsk."

"I want them back!" Starsky said, his voice a pained growl, sounding less angry and more afraid. "Put them back!"

"I'm not going to do that."

Taking a deep breath, Hutch braced himself for what was to come. Hoping for a bitter fight or even an angry tantrum. But he knew both things were too much to ask for. Starsky had said he was angry—something Hutch didn't doubt—but for whatever reason expressing the emotion was still difficult. Instead of displaying dangerous hints of simmering rage, Starsky's eyes filled with frustrated tears. Clenching his fists helplessly at his sides, he looked terrified.

"Buddy, I'm sorry," Hutch said. "It's dangerous to have that many deadbolts—you know that. The new door has a lock on the knob, and you can use that if you want."

He knew it was a horrible consolation; one lock wasn't enough to make Starsky feel safe. He wasn't surprised when his partner escaped to his bedroom, slamming the door in protest, but it did little to ease his guilt and disappointment as he stood in the hallway, once again left to contend with the uncertainty of the future alone.

Xx

Stalking from one end of his bedroom to the other, Starsky blew out a series of deep-chested exhales, willing himself to calm down. His stomach was churning with panic; a horrible stifling emotion that was failing to transform into anger, a more functional feeling. Anger he could use and justify but panic and dread were far less ideal—they left him feeling threatened, timid, and fearful.

Carding his hands exasperatedly though his hair, he hesitated his place, closing his eyes as he willed himself to consider why he was feeling the emotion so strongly. He shouldn't be this threatened about the locks being gone, after all, Hutch was right: they were a safety hazard. It wasn't reasonable to expect to be allowed to hide behind so many deadbolts indefinitely—especially after his meltdown the night prior.

"I'm not afraid of him," Starsky whispered to the empty room, voice timid and unsure. "I'm not."

 _"_ _But you are,"_ a sing-song voice hissed in the back of his mind.

"No." Though his heart skipped, Starsky stubbornly shook his head. He had told Hutch he wasn't afraid of him and he was determined that the statement wouldn't become a lie. "I'm not," he repeated, laying heavily on his bed to stare aimlessly at the ceiling.

Taking a deep breath he held it until he felt his chest would burst. A series of black dots danced in his vision as his breath came in a series of lightheaded gasps, but it was a comforting sensation. And holding his breath once more, Starsky allowed himself to be soothed by the numbness accompanying the lack of oxygen and eventual sound of his frantic breaths.

He wasn't afraid of Hutch. Not anymore. Crossing his arms, he silently repeated his mantra until he felt his fear subside. How could he possibly be afraid of Hutch? His Hutch wasn't the creature Marcus had hidden in the darkness, and his Hutch was always careful to respect his needs and abide by his wishes—at least when it really mattered—how long the deadbolts had remained on his bedroom door was proof of that.

 _"_ _But he didn't respect your opinion on Marcus,"_ the voice whispered sadly. _"You asked him to stop and he kept pushing. He didn't take the time to consider why you didn't want to keep the case. He didn't respect your fear or abide by wishes, and look where that got you."_

"It's not his fault."

 _"_ _It is. He took you to Marcus. You came home from Huggy's and he attacked you. How can you be sure he won't do that again?"_

Turning his head, Starsky looked uneasily at the unlocked door. He wasn't sure it wouldn't happen again, nor did he want to remember the details of that night. But even so, the horrible facts seemed intent on being recalled, and he found himself captive to something that couldn't be forgotten—or changed.

He had come home to find Hutch sleeping half-naked and handcuffed to the bedframe. The image had been stimulating until it wasn't. First filling drunken Starsky with lecherous desire as he likened Hutch's position to a profound apology—a knee-jerk guilt-ridden gesture to soothe away lingering ill-will. There was no other explanation for the action; Hutch didn't like to be tied up—it was deeply embedded phobia— and the other time he had allowed himself to be handcuffed to the bed had ended so poorly that Starsky never suggested it again.

Starsky would never forget the panic etched in Hutch's blue eyes as he clasped the cuff around his wrist or his voice, tight with fear and thick with sudden tears, as he immediately pleaded for it to be removed. And with the memory of Hutch's panic swirling in his drunken brain, Starsky had quickly freed the cuffs from the bedframe as his mouth traveled up his partner's naked chest before fiercely claiming his lips in a kiss. But Hutch's reaction had been unexpected, and shocked Starsky hadn't been quick enough to stop his impending attack.

 _"_ _He hit you,"_ the voice whispered. _"He hit you so hard, your skin broke and you saw stars."_

Closing his eyes, Starsky struggled to silence the voice and the strength of the memory.

 _"_ _He threw you down so forcefully that your teeth rattled in your skull, and, still, you weren't afraid of him. Not then, anyway."_

"I thought he was remembering," Starsky said softly. "I thought he was panicking like the time before, that if I yelled loud enough he would snap out of it."

But Hutch hadn't snapped out of it. And screaming for Hutch to remember who he was, Starsky had nearly shouted his voice raw. But his words had been hastened by sudden unconsciousness as Hutch's palmed his head and slammed it against the floor.

"I thought he was remembering," Starsky repeated, his voice pained. Though his Hutch hadn't been the one to hurt him in Marcus's bunker, he had hurt him that night. And the wounds of those actions still cut deep.

 _"_ _Maybe he was,"_ the voice said. _"Maybe he thought you were someone else."_

"I know he did."

Tears filled Starsky's eyes as he likened Hutch's earlier panic to this own. Hutch couldn't allow Starsky to handcuff him to the bed without awakening a ghost from his past, and Starsky couldn't stand the thought of sleeping behind an unlocked locked door for fear that the Hutch from the bunker would suddenly re-emerge.

"He said he was sorry," Starsky said thickly. "He's sorry for hitting me and everything else. He said so in the hospital and before I came home. He won't hurt me again."

 _"_ _You don't know that. What happens next time the darkness gets too close? When his memories come back and seep in his soul? What happens the next time he mixes you up with someone else?"_

"I'm not afraid of that. I'm not afraid of him."

 _"_ _Then what are you afraid of?"_

Groaning, Starsky rested his forearm over his eyes. He was done agonizing over things he couldn't change and finished considering outcomes he could never predict. The voice knew what he was afraid of—the terrifying thought that had always lived in the depths of his mind.

 _"_ _You're just like your mother. You're afraid that he's not strong enough to save both of you, that he can't contend with his past and save you from yourself. You're afraid that if he knows the truth about you, the sickness that you and your mother share, that he won't be strong enough to love you and he'll walk away instead."_

Closing his eyes, Starsky pushed the words from his mind. The voice was wrong—it _had_ to be wrong. He couldn't contend with his impending illness without Hutch, nor could he fight it alone. He needed Hutch to ground him in place when the world started to shift, to help him combat the confusion settling in his heart. He loved Hutch more than anyone—than anything—Hutch's strength made him strong. Hutch's certainty made him certain of things he could never be sure of on his own. If Hutch walked away there would be no reason for living—no reason to fight the crippling fear threatening to engulf his mind.

"You're wrong," Starsky whispered. "He's the strongest person I know."

Though he anticipated a quick response, the room remained quiet. Several long minutes passed as Starsky shifted tiredly, aching for a more comfortable place on the bed. Yawning, he turned on his side and burrowed his head into the plush pillow, closing his heavy eyelids as he finally allowed himself to be enticed by the comfort of sleep.

 _"_ _If I'm wrong, then you're wrong."_

Haunting words echoing in his mind, Starsky's eyes snapped open as he was engulfed by uncertain fear.

Xx

"What the hell happened with Starsky's mom?" Hutch fumed, tone hushed as he pressed his phone to his ear and paced the confines of the patio.

"Greetings to you too, man," Huggy groused. "You know, I'm happy to see your direct attitude has returned, but I'd be lying if I said it wasn't wearing on me. I mean, is hello _really_ too much to ask…?"

Hutch cringed as his phone vibrated against his ear, notifying him of yet another text message. He didn't have to look to know who the sender was. Since numbly entering Doctor's Evans's office, he had missed five phone calls and numerous texts from Lucas Huntley—who was undoubtedly trying to contact him regarding the information Chief Ryan and Captain Dobey knew. While Hutch felt guilty avoiding Huntley's communication, he wasn't yet ready to deal with the fallout or stress of his exposed past. And since there was nothing he could do to lessen the compilations of something he couldn't change, he turned his focus to something he hoped he could.

Evan's warning regarding Starsky's behavior was odd and coupled with Starsky's prior plea—his verbal insistence that Hutch not allow him to become like his mother—it was disturbing; it was another unsettling development in what was turning into a series of things better left alone.

"Are you going to answer my question?" Hutch demanded, feeling panic build in his chest. Evans was right. How was he supposed to help Starsky accept and recover from what he'd endured, when he couldn't even face the truth of his own past?

"I don't know," Huggy sighed. "Why don't you restart this conversation with a more congenial tone and we'll see how it goes?"

Closing his eyes, Hutch inhaled an impatient breath. "Hi, Huggy," he said through clenched teeth. This conversation was unbearable. He should have turned his phone off and avoided the world for the rest of the day. "How are you today?"

"Oh, I'm just fine. How are you and your other half on this beautiful day—?"

"What _happened_?"

"With what?"

"What do you mean, _with what_? I just asked you: what do you know about Starsky's mom?"

"I don't know. She's on the East coast. Her dubious deeds aren't exactly on my radar, if you get my drift."

"No," Hutch growled, pinching the bridge of his nose. He wasn't sure if Huggy was purposely making him work for the information or if he genuinely didn't know. "Not recently. What do you know about what happened when he was kid?"

"How should I know?"

"Well, you're his best friend! Why don't you know these things—"

"And you're his partner! So maybe the real question you should be asking yourself is: why don't you?"

The statement hastened Hutch's pacing. Stomach fluttering with anxiety, he stood frozen in place, smarting from Huggy's jagged words.

"I'm sorry, man," Huggy sighed regretfully. "I didn't mean that the way it came out. As it turns out you're not the only one who experiences the occasional bad day. And it has been a _fucking_ day… Half my bar staff called off and I'm getting some bullshit from this uppity crowd that decided to have bridal shower at The Pits. They're asking for all sorts of frilly shit—who does that, anyway?—this is bar not a fucking nail salon!"

"It's fine," Hutch whispered. But Huggy's question still lingered. If something had happened with Starsky's mother, why didn't he know?

"I don't know anything about Starsky's mom," Huggy continued. "If there's a story to tell, you're gonna have to hear it from him."

Hutch closed his eyes as his phone vibrated again. Pulling it away from his ear, his stomach dropped as he noted the words of new text message displayed on the screen: **_Lucas Huntley: We need to talk. Call me now!_**

Suddenly, probing Huggy for information about Starsky didn't feel right. Why was he so focused on secretly gathering information that Starsky clearly didn't want him to know? His worry for his partner's wellbeing didn't justify the call—and good intentions didn't negate betrayal of Starsky's trust. If Starsky wanted him to know about his mother—if he _needed_ to know—his partner would have told him.

"Listen, Hug," Hutch said guiltily. "Sorry I asked, okay? You're right, it's not your place to know stuff like that, and you're not the one I should be asking."

"Are you doing okay?" Huggy asked skeptically.

"Yeah."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," Hutch lied. "I got to go. I'll talk to you later."

Ending the call, Hutch sighed, hanging his head as his phone immediately began vibrating once more. Clenching it tightly in his fist, he didn't look at it until long after the vibrating ceased but it did nothing to calm his apprehension. And when he finally mustered the courage to look at his phone, his heart skipped frantically as he struggled to comprehend the missed call and voicemail information displayed across the screen.

Xx

Hours passed before Starsky finally emerged from his bedroom. Taking small strides and deep breaths, he clenched his fists at his sides as he walked slowly through the apartment, searching for his partner before eventually noticing him through the open patio door.

Sitting at the patio set, long legs extended and feet propped up on another chair, Hutch looked distracted. Eyes set on the brick wall containing the area, he held a beer can in one hand and absently rubbed his chest with the other. It was a thoughtful gesture, one that Starsky had become well accustomed to over the years; it signaled that Hutch was struggling to work through some unvoiced problem, to come up with a comfortable solution to a troubling predicament.

The night sky, though sparking with stars, was too dark for Starsky to feel comfortable joining Hutch outside. Standing unseen in the doorway, he watched him instead, absently eyeing the darkness hiding in the far patio corners and working up the courage to either intrude on his partner's quiet thoughts or return to the solace of his bedroom. Lucky, however, made the decision for him. Laying underneath Hutch's extended legs, the dog suddenly noticed Starsky, and waiving his tail he strode to greet him.

Following the dog's sudden movement, Hutch set his surprised gaze on Starsky. "Hi," he said.

"I'm not going to use the lock," Starsky said, blurting what he had sought out his partner to say. "The one on my door, I'm not going to use it."

"Okay." Hutch looked confused.

"I said I wasn't afraid of you anymore and I'm not."

"Good."

"I just... I wanted you to know that…" Starsky paused, soft thick words catching in his throat. "And I also wanted say..." Mouth slightly agape, Hutch stared blankly. "I also wanted to say," Starsky repeated, words leaving his mouth in a hearty exhale. "That I… love you too. I haven't said it in a while... and I just... wanted to make sure you still knew."

"Thanks, buddy," Hutch whispered, eyes shining as his lips curled in a small grateful smile.

For a moment, Starsky wondered if Hutch had forgotten how he really felt—if he had needed the affirmation as much as Starsky had needed to say it. His partner looked relieved, as though he had been harboring fear that he would never hear the statement again. Frantic doubts and anxious thoughts still racing through his mind, Starsky longed for Hutch to come closer—to chase away his apprehension with chaste touches and his reassuring stoic presence.

"Can you come inside?" Starsky asked quietly. He shivered involuntarily as his gaze darted to the darkness of the sky. "Please?"

"Of course," Hutch whispered, jumping up to immediately stride to Starsky's side. "Are you hungry?"

"Pizza?"

"Whatever you want, babe."

Hutch grinned as Starsky clenched his hand tightly, then stifled a pleased chuckle as he was pulled into the illuminated safety of their apartment.

Xx

The night was peaceful; filling their stomach with greasy pizza—courtesy of Starsky's favorite chain—the pair enjoyed an evening full of junk food and TV. Feet propped on the coffee table, Hutch rested his half-empty beer can on his kneecap with one hand and Starsky held tight to the other. He wasn't paying attention to the news anchors as their voices filled the living room, updating them on the latest events in the city, and stealing glances at Starsky, he quickly realized he wasn't either. Elongated legs resting next to his own, Starsky was slouched comfortably. Yawning, he blinked sleepily as his gaze wandered around the room, momentarily setting on various areas before returning to the TV and, eventually, drifting again.

Hutch longed comment on Starsky's nomadic gaze but didn't want to disturb the moment. Something had changed between them—he could feel it. Sometime between Starsky's terror-fueled meltdown the night prior and when his partner had gathered him from the patio something important had shifted back into place, but he was unsure of what. There was stillness between them—a quiet comfort to their silence that had been absent for some time—and a difference to Starsky's wiliness to be touched.

Though before he had only allowed handholding, Starsky had disregarded his previous stanch rules tonight. Gripping his partner's hand tightly, Starsky pressed the side of his head into Hutch's upper arm as he picked absently at the bandage covering his exposed cheek. Their physical proximity was both familiar and foreign, and Hutch found himself struggling to recall when they had enjoyed night quite like this. Long before Simon Marcus came into their lives, he quickly deduced, possibly even before his father had died. But pushing the train of thought from his mind and heavy breath from his chest, he forced himself to remain in the moment. It didn't matter how long it had been since the last time things felt this good, it only mattered that the tension that had been lingering between them had vanished, erased by Starsky's sudden—odd—craving to be near him on the couch.

"Can we watch something else?" Starsky whispered, grimacing as the news cut to coverage of a yellow-tape encircled crime scene.

"Oh!" Hutch exclaimed. Feet dropping from the coffee table, he looked regretfully at his beer before pulling his hand from Starsky's grasp and leaning forward to abandon his drink and collect remote from under the empty pizza box. "Tell me when stop," he said, flipping through the channels.

Starsky nodded, but the lag between networks made settling on a new channel a daunting task. Hutch sighed as he pushed the button over and over, presenting his partner with one momentary frozen screen after another, each less enticing than the one before. Finally the TV screen flashed with something familiar, a brightly colored animated sitcom of the sci-fi variety.

"Starsk?" Hutch prompted with a tilt of his head. "God, it's been forever since we've watched this. I didn't think it was still on."

Despite his partner's silence, Hutch abandoned the remote on the table and relaxed into couch. He was disappointed when Starsky moved, inching to sit a small space away as his face set in a conflicted frown.

"Oh, come on, babe," Hutch smiled, "you love this show."

"I didn't tell you to stop," Starsky mumbled.

"Oh, well, do you want to me to change it?" Hutch asked, grasping Starsky's hand once more.

Starsky shrugged, but he allowed Hutch to entwine his fingers with his own.

"Starsky, if you want me to flip channels until you tell me to stop, I will. I'll do whatever you want me to do. Just tell me what you need and it's done."

Looking at Hutch uncertainly, Starsky appeared conflicted for a moment more before his features softened and he settled himself into partner's side. Resting the side of his cheek on the top of Starsky's head, Hutch closed his eyes. He was grateful as his unconscious action was accepted by his silent partner; he felt enveloped in the moment—comforted by the nearness of Starsky and the distance of the outside world.

As his phone vibrated frantically in his front pocket, Hutch was quick ignore the incoming call. Rubbing absently on the phone's buttons through the rough material, he longed to dismiss his anxiety as quickly as he had the call, to let go of the apprehension threatening to destroy the security of having Starsky so close.

"I love you," Starsky whispered. "I just need time."

"I love you too, and you can have whatever you need," Hutch vowed, though he knew neither of them would be allotted more time.

And planting a kiss on the top of Starsky's head, Hutch closed his eyes and reminded himself to enjoy the moment—to relish and memorize each detail as though it was their last. But he couldn't, because the frantic repetitive phone calls were proof that, despite the moment, his life—their life together—was about to drastically change.

Evans was right: his father's purposeful lies hadn't been enough. They would never be enough to protect what he was about to lose.


	28. Chapter Twenty-Eight

**Current Day**

"How bad is it?" Hutch asked.

Eyes carefully scanning the sparse crown of the coffee shop, he fought the urge to stand and run from the building. But he couldn't do that—he wouldn't do that—not after missing countless urgent calls and text messages from the man sitting across from him. Though he had avoided this moment for as long as he possibly could, it had done nothing to calm his nervousness. His body was alive with anxious energy. Tapping his fingertips on the table top, his eyes darted around, searching for people he recognized or a hint that someone was casually listening in on their conversation, but quickly finding neither, he was finally forced to set his gaze across the table.

"I'm not gonna lie to you, pal," Lucas Huntley said, his voice soft and serious as his fingers trailed absently up and down the side of his coffee cup. "It's bad."

Apprehension spiking, Hutch turned his attention to ceiling rafters hanging high above them. "Okay," he said deeply, focusing on the dark grain of the exposed wood.

He liked this coffee shop; small and minimally decorated it was a comforting backdrop for a cluster of good memories. It was where, during graduate school, he had escaped from the confines of the tiny apartment he shared with Vanessa to study; where he first met Huntley; where he had taken Starsky the morning after their first night together; and years later, where Starsky, his hand covertly caressing Hutch's under the table, had whispered his desire to be together for the rest of their lives.

Nervously clearing his throat, Hutch hoped that this terrible moment, sitting across from Huntley waiting for his life to change, wouldn't be enough to negate the rest. "Okay," he repeated quietly. "If you had to rank it on a scale of one to ten—"

"We aren't on a scale of one to ten, but if we were it would be a fifty."

" _Shit_."

"I know you don't want to ask, so I'll just tell you. It was that _fucker_ , John Blaine. He got it into his head that you did something—that you were the reason Starsky was found the way that he was. _Jesus_ ," Huntley swore, shaking his head as he lowered his voice, "and you know how he can be when he gets his mind set on something, like a fucking dog with a bone."

"Yeah."

"Most of the time you can ignore him— _Shit_ , you know everyone does—I think Ryan and Dobey, well, they both had their doubts about what really happened. But after your disciplinary hearing they were both intent on ignoring their suspicions where you and Simon Marcus were concerned. That God-damn Blaine, he just kept yelling until he finally got heard."

"What was it?" Hutch asked, though he was certain he didn't want to know. "What was the thing that made Ryan and Dobey listen?"

"It's bad," Huntley repeated, exhaling the words in an exhausted sigh. "I don't know how he did it, but _somehow_ Blaine dug up your psych history, which led him to the police report." He paused as Hutch groaned, his face freezing with pained regret. "I'm so sorry, pal. He took what he discovered to Dobey and Ryan, and they know everything—what happened to you and what your father did to cover it up. And now they're asking questions about the bunker on the Marcus property. Comparing it to the one in Minnesota and Starsky's injuries to the ones you sustained."

Grinding his jaw, Hutch stifled another groan. Huntley was right: this was bad. Though Evans had warned him, he hadn't wanted to believe her words. He had tried to dismiss the anxiety building in his chest, telling himself lie after lie until his worry slightly ebbed. There was no way his superiors could have actually _known_ about his past—the medical records of which, his father had been careful to disguise. But if Huntley's words hadn't confirmed his worst fear than his grim expression did. Hutch felt his apprehension shift in a moment, transforming from dread to terror.

It wasn't enough. Lies would never be enough to change or soothe the pain of what had been done.

"This is going to cost me my career," Hutch said numbly.

"If Blaine gets his way, it's gonna cost you a lot more than your career. There are a lot of uncomfortable…" Huntley paused, seemingly struggling with the proper word. " _Parallels_ ," he said, his face becoming guarded. "Between what happened to you and what happened to Starsky."

"Parallels," Hutch scoffed, eyes glistening with abrupt anger. Huntley didn't believe he had planned Starsky's abduction, did he?

"You can't deny the way it looks."

"What do you _know_ about how it looks?"

While Hutch couldn't negate his role in Starsky's abduction, he refused to tolerate the accusation from such a trusted friend. Huntley was his mentor, his ally, a substitute father of sorts. If he couldn't maintain innocence from Huntley's point of view, he had little hope of hanging on to the sliver of truth threating to slip through his fingertips. Regardless of what had been said or done, Hutch hadn't wanted this. If he had any control over the situation, he never would have allowed Starsky to be harmed by Simon Marcus—no matter how it appeared now.

"Hey, don't get mad at me!" Huntley growled. "I'm not the enemy here. For the record, I'm on your side. I will always be on _your_ side. But there comes a time when you have to be honest with yourself about what's going on. You have to stop running from the fallout of the truth and deal with it instead. If you had anything to do with this—and I mean _anything_ —you need to own up to it"

"I didn't."

"You better be sure about that," Huntley said seriously. "And you better hope to God, Starsky is sure about that, because losing your career is the least of your worries. Like I said, there are a lot of parallels, and your behavior subsequent to Starsky's disappearance is suspicious to say the least. Dobey didn't document it, but you can guarantee the night you got picked up wandering the city is still fresh in his mind, and so is your unstable behavior leading up to the night you killed Simon Marcus. It looks bad, pal. Your official reports on the Marcus compound were completely incorrect. Your phone and Starsky's wallet were both found on Blackwell's body. You escaped from the back of a squad car, _miraculously_ finding Starsky on a property that had been exhaustively searched. And don't forget about Starsky's reaction to you. He was afraid of you— _terrified_ to be near you. All those details coupled with your history are damning, and if they connect you—if Blaine pushes Dobey and Ryan to indict you—I don't know if there's a jury that will give you the benefit of a doubt. You're looking at time, pal. Hard time."

Sighing heavily, Hutch leaned back in his chair. Arms hanging limply at his sides he looked defeated, his face falling under the weight of agitated anguish. There was no way out of this—no ideal solution to problem that should have never existed. He should have told the truth when he had the chance. On the night of his father's death, he should have confessed everything to Starsky. Before Simon Marcus crawled into his head; before everything went so incredibly wrong.

"Starsky doesn't know," Hutch admitted quietly, his words defeated.

"About how he was taken?"

"No." Closing his eyes, Hutch struggled to summon the courage to continue the conversation. "He doesn't know about _me_. About what happened when I was child, how I lied to get into the academy, or the similarities between what happened to us."

Huntley looked confused. Clearing his throat, he sipped at his coffee before palming his chin. "What?" he asked quietly, an edge to the word. "You guys are tight. With the nature of your _partnership_ how is it possible that he doesn't know?"

"I never told him."

"Why?"

"Because," Hutch sighed, shaking his head. "It never came up. I didn't want…" Biting his lower lip, he hesitated. How could he explain the stifling anxiety attached to the notion of Starsky knowing the truth? How could he, himself, began to understand the panic eternally accompanying the idea of finally accepting the truth?

He had been victim. A part of him would always be a victim. He couldn't lose the innocence of Starsky's love, to allow what had happened when he was a child alter the lens of strength and capability his partner saw him through, because a truth still lingered, unheeded in the back of his mind, waiting for silent moments to whisper its dreaded words. There was only one thing worse than Starsky knowing and choosing to walk away: Starsky knowing and choosing to stay.

"But you still see a psych," Huntley pressed.

"He doesn't know about that."

"But you go twice a month."

"Luke, he doesn't know!"

" _Shit_." Huntley exhaled an exasperated breath. "Well, his response is either going to save you or sink you, but either way it's time to start telling the truth. Before someone else does it for you. Before Blaine worms his way into Starsky's ear and starts disclosing everything you never wanted him to know. If you have any chance of surviving this, you need to keep Starsky on your side. He hasn't said anything incriminating yet, but just think of how this is gonna look to him. You guys were arguing about Simon Marcus before he was taken, how is he going to feel once he hears Blaine's suspicions?"

Chest fluttering with worry, Hutch suddenly realized he didn't know. He should have but he didn't. And though Starsky still loved him after everything he had endured, would it be enough to survive the harmful suspicions of everyone else?

"You have to talk to him," Huntley urged. "I know you don't want to, but you have to be certain of what he thinks happened with Marcus. You have to tell him the truth."

"But he just stopped being afraid of me," Hutch blurted, instantly regretting the words. They made him sound weak and afraid. _Guilty_ , he thought suddenly, heart skipping a beat. "And you don't know that Blaine is going to talk to him."

"You're kidding, right? You know Blaine; it's a miracle he hasn't cornered Starsky already. God, that _fucker_." Forehead wrinkling, Huntley frowned. "I tell you, people in glass houses should not throw stones. Like he doesn't have anything to hide! Man, I would _love_ to call his wife, fill her in on the studio apartment he keeps on the sly—"

"Luke, being gay isn't a crime."

"Well, being closeted and cheating on your wife ought to be!"

"You don't know that she doesn't know. You don't know their situation."

"And he doesn't know yours!" Huntley said vehemently, pounding his fist on the table. "How _dare_ he do this to you? How dare he threaten your livelihood—your life and future—and Starsky's recovery by spewing this shit? Nobody wants to think you would do Starsky wrong. Nobody wants to believe you planned these horrible events, but he just can't let it go. He just won't let _it_ go."

Hutch didn't have to ask what it was. It was something that—despite the sensitivity of what they were already talking about—he wouldn't dare bring up. Starsky, at one time, had been a favorite of Blaine's, a member of his team and one of his boys. And though nobody really talked about it, there were whispers around the department, hushed secret stories that alluded to Blaine's secret apartment and what was really required of the men in his department in order to move up ranks. Starsky had been one of Blaine's boys before Hutch came along, pulling him away from both his supervision and his team. Something that had cultivated a strange strain between Blaine and Hutch, a tension that had only worsened in time.

"It's because he hates you," Huntley said, seemingly unaware of the sensitivity the subject required. "You stole Starsky from him—"

"Don't," Hutch warned.

"It's fucked up, but you know it's true. If this would have happened to anyone else he wouldn't be pressing it. Just because it was you and Starsky, and Starsky ended up hurt. If the roles were reversed, if you would have been the one Marcus took and Starsky had been left behind, climbing walls and acting crazy before he rescued you, Blaine wouldn't be giving this a second look."

"Can you drop it, please? It doesn't matter why he's doing this. Knowing why doesn't change the truth. It doesn't change anything."

Taking a deep drink of his lukewarm coffee, Huntley shook his head, his face stiffening in exasperation. "You're really too kind," he said. "I mean, here you are purposely not condemning Blaine's intentions when you know damn well he isn't showing you the same consideration. He is going to bend over backwards to destroy you and you won't even talk shit about him behind his back."

Hutch longed to respond, but thinking of the haunting voicemail message he had received the night before, he remained quiet. There was no point in making an already impossible situation worse or adding fuel to the fire that was already engulfing him.

Xx

"I really don't need a babysitter, you know?" Starsky groused. Brows kitting, he fidgeted on his barstool and eyed Huggy with a mixture of annoyance and relief. "I was just fine staying home by myself."

"Of course you were," Huggy assured from the other side of the bar. "And I can't be accused of being a babysitter because we aren't at your place. I believe the use of the word is dependent on the location."

"That makes no sense," Starsky scoffed. "Besides, you picked me up, remember? You said Hutch asked you to hang out with me today, because he didn't want me to be alone. That makes you a babysitter."

Wiping down the beer taps, Huggy rolled his eyes. If he was a babysitter, then maybe he should increase his rate. Any cash would be better than no cash. Not that he minded forcing Starsky out of Venice Place at Hutch's request, but he hadn't expected Starsky's sour mood to linger. Though annoyance was expected, Starsky's explicit displeasure wasn't easily tolerated. Closing his eyes and forcing a deep breath, Huggy reminded himself that an outspokenly displeased Starsky was vastly better than a silent despondent one. And tossing the rag over his shoulder he leaned over the bar and smiled; Starsky was finally beginning to improve—his grouchiness was proof of that.

"You didn't even ask if I wanted to come," Starsky continued, voice a low mumble. "You just assumed I didn't have anything better to do than watch you wipe down tables and wait on the late afternoon crowd."

"What crowd?" Huggy chuckled, looking around the empty room.

"This is _boring_."

"Have a drink."

"I don't want a drink."

"Well, then how about a game of pool?"

"Um…" Picking at the bandage covering his cheek, Starsky eyed the pool room warily. The doorway was dark—too dark—and illuminated only by dim hanging lights the room was much too shadowy for him to feel at ease. What was hiding in the shadows of the room, waiting for the perfect moment to pull him back into the darkness?

"Starsky?" Huggy prompted, watching him carefully.

Grimacing, Starsky closed his eyes and shook his head. "No," he whispered.

"No?"

"I don't want to play."

"But you _love_ pool."

"I'm not in the mood."

"Since when do you need to be in the mood for pool?" Huggy challenged jubilantly. "Come on, you're bored and you know you want to play. I'll tell you what, we'll bet like we used to when we played basketball on recess: a pog for every bank shot."

"Where the hell are you gonna find pogs?" Starsky scoffed, nervousness forgotten by the absurdity of Huggy's bet.

"EBay." Huggy shrugged.

"Seriously?"

"Starsky, you can almost find anything your heart desires on eBay—no matter how obscure. Where do you think Hutch got those sweet re-released Adidas kicks he bought you a while back?"

Sucking in a startled breath, Starsky's gaze fell to the floor. Somehow, he hadn't thought about the shoes—the well-loved sneakers that had been taken from him at the Marcus compound, disappearing with countless other things he knew he would never be able to retrieve. His shoes were gone along with his favorite pair of jeans and the favored button up shirt he and Hutch once shared.

His shoes were gone and now he was slowly losing his mind.

 _"_ _You're never going to be the same,"_ a voice hissed in the back of his head. _"You won't be and you shouldn't be."_

Sucking in a deep breath, Starsky grimaced and closed his eyes.

 _"_ _You're as useless as those shoes. Dirty and old."_

"No," Starsky murmured. It wasn't true. He was getting better; Hutch had promised to help him get better.

 _"_ _He did but he doesn't know the truth. And once he does, he'll drop you like those shoes. Like you don't matter. Like what happened didn't matter."_

"No," Starsky growled, voice a bit louder.

"Hey," Huggy whispered. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

"I don't..." Starsky shook his head, struggling to clear the echoing of the voice and grasping for the remnants of his conversation with Huggy. "The shoes are gone, Hug. They're gone and I'm never going to get them back."

"Oh. Well, have you put Hutch on the case? I'm sure he can track down another pair. _Shit_ , he probably already has. The boy knows no boundaries when it comes to you. There is no limit to the things he will do for you."

 _"_ _But there is,"_ the voice whispered. _"There is a limit. Once he knows nothing will make him stay. And he'll walk away like it didn't matter—like you don't matter—he'll pretend you don't exist. Just like the other people he's left behind. He'll replace you…"_

"No," Starsky said firmly. Clenching his fists as his sides, he felt an inexplicable wave of fierce, irrepressible anger, leaving his breath hitching and chest burning. The voice was wrong and so was Huggy. "My shoes are gone. I can't replace them. They _shouldn't_ be replaced. What happened to them mattered, it can't just be erased by something else! By pretending that they aren't gone or ignoring how much it sucks that things went the way they did!"

"Okay," Huggy soothed, raising his hands defensively. "Forget I mentioned it, man. I get it, you can't replace the shoes. We won't talk about replacing the shoes."

Staring at each other, they both knew Starsky's anger wasn't over the lost shoes, rather the complicated emotions the topic had awoke. While he was doing better, Starsky was far from healed. His fear was slowly ebbing but anger was starting to fill the gaps it left behind. If he wasn't so worried about the fury in his best friend's eyes, Huggy would have been relieved. Anger was to be expected—it was comforting to see one of Starsky's normal coping mechanisms reemerge—but the fury was frightening. Dangerous and unpredictable, it only hinted at the hurt and helplessness lurking under the surface.

"How about that game?" Huggy prompted, nodding at the entry to the poolroom.

 _"_ _What do you see in the darkness?"_ the voice hissed. _"Marcus asked you that, but the real question is: what does it see in you?"_

"Come on, Starsky," Huggy coaxed. "Pogs for bank shots, remember?"

"No," Starsky said defiantly.

Jumping from the bar stool, he shook his head and backed toward the door. He had no intention of entering the darkened room. Not with the voice whispering in his head; he couldn't—he wouldn't—risk melting down in front of Huggy. Doing so in front of Hutch was one thing but displaying his instability in front someone else was something else entirely.

"I'm gonna go," he added, turning and walking purposefully toward the front door.

He didn't want to leave; he didn't want to brave the city streets or a taxi ride, alone, but he couldn't stay. The room was claustrophobic, filled to the brim with the haunting hiss of the voice in his head. He couldn't stay here. He couldn't bear another moment as the darkness stared at him from the doorway of the poolroom.

"What?" Huggy scoffed. "You don't have a car, where are you gonna go?"

"Why do you care?"

"I brought you here, you should at least let me take you home. My bartender's shift starts in 30 minutes; I can take you back if you just hang around for a while. Or we can call Hutch and I'm sure he'll come get you. You just gotta hang tight for a few, okay?"

"I don't need a babysitter," Starsky spat, grasping the doorknob.

"Starsky, please just wait!"

Pushing the door open, Starsky rushed to the sidewalk lining the busy street. Bending over, he closed his eyes, forcing a series of deep chested breathes as he willed his anxiousness to subside. The darkness was gone; the voice inside of him was slowly calming, drowned out by the noisy street; and with a smile tugging at his lips he relished the comforting feeling of the afternoon sun as it chased the chill from his body. He was fine—things were going to be fine.

"Starsky," Huggy said, coming to a stop behind him. "What are you—?"

"There you are!" a familiar voice boomed over the sounds of passing traffic. "I've been looking for you for hours!"

Huggy frowned, his forehead wrinkling with disapproval as he looked over Starsky's shoulder and watched the familiar man approach.

Turning abruptly, Starsky's eyes widened in shock. "What?" he asked. "Why would you be looking for me? You could have called, you know, saved yourself some time."

"I tried." John Blaine smiled. "Apparently, you aren't into answering your phone these days. Besides, do I really need an excuse? It's been too long since I've seen you. I thought I'd check in, maybe see if you wanted to join me for lunch."

"It's a bit late for lunch," Huggy muttered.

"An early dinner then," Blaine said warmly. "What do you say, kiddo? Burrito and a beer, like the old days, my treat."

Looking between Huggy and Blaine, Starsky ground his jaw. This was an interesting turn of events but not an unwelcome one. Joining Blaine would get him away from the stifling bar and soothe Huggy's worry about him leaving alone. He didn't want to be alone.

"Sure." He shrugged. "But I don't want to go anywhere dark. I want to be outside."

"Whatever you want," Blaine assured. Nodding at Huggy, he clasped the back of Starsky's neck and squeezed it fondly, propelling him down the sidewalk toward his car.

"See you later, Hug." Starsky waived noncommittally.

Standing in front the bar, Huggy waived—an action he knew neither man would see—as an odd apprehension gathered in the pit of his stomach. For a moment he wanted to run after them, to pull Starsky away from Blaine and back to the bar to wait for Hutch. But he dismissed the idea quickly. Starsky had known Blaine for years—so had he— and he was trustworthy enough. There was no reason to feel uncomfortable, and no past interaction to support the overwhelming feeling of wrongness born from seeing Blaine and Starsky slowly disappear down the sidewalk.


	29. Chapter Twenty-Nine

**Current Day:**

" _What?!"_ Hutch exclaimed over the noisy chatter of the room as he fought to maintain his spot opposite Huggy and the beer taps. Happy hour at The Pits had come with a gusto, leaving the tables full and a crowd of drink demanding people swarming the bar. "Why the _hell_ did you let Starsky leave?"

"I didn't have a choice, man," Huggy shouted. Gaze down, he expertly tipped one beer glass after another, filling them to the brim with amber liquid before distributing them to an anxious group of college kids. "He got antsy. I tried to talk him into waiting but then John Blaine showed up, and there was no way he was gonna stick around after that."

"Oh, Huggy, don't tell me that." Rubbing his hands over his face, panic and irritation filled Hutch's chest. "Why didn't you call me?"

"I tried. You didn't answer. You really have to stop ignoring your calls, Hutch. What if it would have been an emergency...?"

Hutch rolled his eyes as Huggy continued his scolding speech—the second one he had endured that day, having been on the receiving end of some choice words from Lucas Huntley for not answering his phone.

It wouldn't have mattered anyway, Hutch thought glumly. Huntley was right: he had waited too long to tell Starsky the truth and now it was too late. He should have ran from the coffee shop the second Huntley told him about Blaine's actions; he shouldn't have allowed Blaine to beat him to Starsky, to tell him his suspicions and God only knew what else.

"What am I gonna do?" Hutch whispered. Leaning over the crowed bar, he shimmied his shoulders in an effort to encourage the patrons on both sides to move over. Neither took the hint and Hutch found himself the victim of twin intense disgruntled stares. "What?" he grunted, lips forming a stubborn line; he wasn't in a mood to be challenged.

"Watch it," one of the men warned. "I was here first."

"So?" Hutch scoffed, his patience with the crowd and the day wearing thin. While the portly bearded man assessing him may have been larger in girth, Hutch was taller and decidedly unafraid of engaging in a fight. In fact, with dread, uncertainty, and anger simmering in the pit of his stomach, he began hoping the guy would escalate their minor disagreement. It would feel good to hit somebody. " _Move_ over," he added firmly.

"No," the man spat, squaring his shoulders and planting his feet on the floor. The crowd shifted around them as they became the focus of curious stares. "And I'm only going to ask you one more time before—"

"Before _what_?" Hutch challenged, standing up straight to tower in front of the upset man. He was way past reason now; it wasn't the man he was seeing in front of him but John Blaine, eyes narrowed as his lips settled in a smug smile. Hutch frowned. Fucking John Blaine and his arsenal of secrets he shouldn't have been privy to. "What are you gonna do?" Hutch taunted.

"He's not gonna do anything," Huggy yelled over the bar. Hutch and the man stood face-to-face, their eyes sparkling with anger, their chests hovering inches apart as they clenched their fists, each eagerly waiting for the other to make a move. "And neither are you. Let it go, Hutch!"

But full of nervous energy and resentment, Hutch didn't want to let it go, and neither did the other man.

"Somebody ought to teach you some manners, bro," the man growled.

"Oh, _yeah_?"

"Yeah, you're being an asshole."

"Because I asked you to _move over_?"

"Because you _shoved_ me."

"I didn't _shove_ you—!"

"With your _fucking_ shoulder, bro—"

"I wouldn't have had to _shove_ you if you would have given me some _damn_ room!"

"Get out of the way!" Huggy shouted. Emerging from behind the bar, he urgently pushed through the crowd. " _Move! Move! Move_!"

"I was here _first_!" the man bellowed.

" _I don't care_!" Hutch yelled.

Coming to a stop in front of the pair, Huggy grasped Hutch's upper arm. Frowning, he felt Hutch's upper body shift as he expertly ducked out of the way of the man's impending punch.

"Hey, man, knock it off—"

The crowd let out a collective gasp as the man's fist connected with Huggy's face. Eyes darkening and arm swinging, Hutch lunged at the man. Then all hell broke loose, dissolving the crowd in front of the bar into a flurry of violent movement.

Xx

True to his word, John Blaine took Starsky to a taco stand in Lincoln Heights. Inserted between a gym and a vacant parking lot, the stand was familiar, family operated, and serving traditional Mexican fare with fresh ingredients, it was a place Starsky and Hutch frequented often when working their beat. Hutch liked it because he was able always to talk the proprietor into making him an off-the-menu salad, and Starsky liked it because of the oversized portions, but listening to Hutch speak Spanish while ordering was always a plus.

Sitting opposite Blaine at a worn picnic table, Starsky's elbow sat heavily on the tabletop, resting his chin on his palm, he picked absently at the bandage covering his cheek as his eyes darted anxiously around. There wasn't much activity to wary of; it was an odd time to be seeking food. The lunch crowd had cleared out hours ago, leaving the area mostly deserted until people started lining up for dinner. But with the sun hanging high, there wasn't the slightest hint of the darkness that had hidden in the crevices of The Pits and for that, Starsky was grateful. Warmed by the sun and surrounded by Latin American music and the wafting aroma of hot food, he felt slightly at ease.

"Are you ever gonna take that thing off your face?" Blaine asked, lips curling into a small smile. Twisting the tops off of twin beer bottles, he shoved a lime wedge into each of them before placing one front of Starsky and taking a drink of the other. "That cut's got to be long healed by now."

While the words were meant to comfort, they did the opposite, and feeling chastised for the action, Starsky shrugged awkwardly, moving his fingers from his cheek to trail them up and down the beer bottle. He hadn't wanted the drink, and though the smooth glass lip was enticing, he couldn't quite bring himself to take a sip. He had shocked Blaine—and himself—by turning down lunch upon arriving. Stomach churning, the thought of food was intolerable and notion of drinking—becoming uninhibited or losing any variation of control—was unacceptable. He was nervous enough without adding alcohol to his system.

"How bad is it?" Blaine probed gently.

"What?"

"That scar. It's got to be bad if you're so intent on keeping it covered up."

Mouth slightly agape, Starsky shrugged again. He didn't know how to tell Blaine that the covering of the scar was ceremonial. Too afraid to see his marred appearance, he hadn't seen the cut since he was in the hospital. The shock and grief that accompanied viewing the puckered pink skin surrounding a line of stitches had been enough to prevent him from venturing another look. He avoided the mirror while replacing the oversized bandages and shaved the same way—closing his eyes and working from memory as he glided his tri-head electric shaver across his face—and judging by the few times Hutch had volunteered to even out his sideburns after he was done, he did a fairly good job.

Starsky smiled. If he didn't return to Bay City PD, maybe he could begin a career as a blindfolded barber. It would be a real shtick—no haircuts, of course—wearing a dark blindfold with a wacky saying, he would go all out: thick warm shaving cream, sharp razors, and warm towels.

"What are you grinning about?" Blaine asked, face contorting suspiciously.

"Nothing."

"Nothing, huh? Didn't look like nothing to me."

"Doesn't matter," Starsky sighed, his daydream fading.

It was stupid idea anyway; there was no way Hutch would be comfortable with him touching another man's face. Returning his thoughts the present, Starsky found himself wondering why Blaine had chosen to bring him to this taco stand. If he had wanted to relive the old days, he had picked the wrong place to do it. The burrito place they frequented was a cart three blocks away from Metro. And just as quickly as he thought of the question, Starsky knew the answer: Blaine had taken him here because it was quiet and there was little risk of running into someone they knew. It was calculated decision, motivated in part by Blaine wanting to protect Starsky from unsolicited questions and stares—something that would have been unavoidable if they were closer to Metro—and still unsure of Starsky's mental state, Blaine had taken him somewhere where any unstable actions would be easily ignored by the people around them.

"I haven't seen you since you left your aunt and uncle's place," Blaine said, his voice soft but rich with authority. "How are things?"

"Fine."

"That's good to hear. You weren't doing too well before you decided to leave, but you look a little better now than you did then. How's therapy going?"

"Fine," Starsky repeated.

"You getting on with your psych, okay? Oh…what's her name?"

"Evans." Starsky nodded. "She's alright." Pushy, he thought. But mostly okay. Except for the fact that she knew Hutch, and they had slept together. He frowned, the dormant detail emerging from the depths of his memory to assault him with a pang of jealous anger.

"You don't look like you think she's okay."

"She's fine."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"Good. How's the old car lot?"

"Same as always," Starsky sighed, thinking of the dreaded day a week—Hutch and Al had covertly arranged—he agreed to spend washing cars.

"I'm sure," Blaine chuckled. "Well, Al's glad to have you around, anyway. I think he likes having you close, especially… well, after everything you went through." Sipping his beer, Blaine's face briefly contorted with a mixture of distain and worry before he forced a smile. "How's Hutch?" he asked tightly.

Blaine didn't want to ask about Hutch—Starsky knew that—but it was a required. A necessary evil—from Blaine's point of view—and common courtesy to ask about the man Starsky had chosen to share his life with—a decision that Blaine had never agreed with or fully supported. There had been bad blood between Blaine and Hutch for years, though not for the reasons Starsky knew people suspected.

"He's fine too. How's Maggie?"

"Oh, she's fine. Anxious for a visit from you; she's been stockpiling new cookie recipes for the end of summer block party. There's a few she wants to try out on you the next time you decide to spend a day at your aunt and uncle's place."

"Oh, well, next time I'm there, I'll let her know."

An awkward silence fell between them as Blaine finished his beer and ordered another and Starsky resumed his wandering gaze. He didn't know what he looking for or what he expected to see in their harmless surroundings but stomach fluttering he was certain that _something_ was hiding somewhere, watching him closely and waiting for the sun to go down.

"You looking for somebody?" Blaine asked, shoving a lime slice in his beer.

"No. And you better pace yourself," Starsky warned, nodding at the beer. "Aren't you due back at the station soon?"

"No."

"Well, you drove us here."

"And last time I checked you were old enough to drive," Blaine laughed. "If you think I can't hold two beers then feel free to take my keys."

"I wouldn't do that."

And Starsky wouldn't; somehow not trusting Blaine's judgement seemed unwise. His methods may not always be palatable but his intensions were always solid. Blaine was a lot like Hutch that way: sometimes gruff but always dependable and fiercely protective about the people he loved.

"Speaking of cars, are you on the lookout new wheels yet?"

"What?" Starsky scoffed, eyes wide over the absurdity of the question. "I got a car, John, what do I need another one for?"

" _Shit."_ Inhaling sharply, Blaine held his breath then pushed out the air with a groan, his face falling with guilt and a hint of regret. "Bud, I'm sorry. I thought you knew."

"Knew what?"

"The Camaro is totaled."

"No, it isn't," Starsky snorted, certain that car wasn't gone. It couldn't be; it was at home, parked safely in the garage of the beach house—where it had been since before he was taken.

But they didn't live at the beach house anymore, and he hadn't seen the car parked anywhere in their new neighborhood—not behind the building in either of the reserved places for their apartment, or on the street. Frowning, Starsky pressed his hands to the sides of his head, and struggled to recall the last time he had seen his car. He had driven to car to The Pits to play pool and Huggy had sent him home in a cab. Where had the car gone, and why hadn't anyone mentioned—why hadn't he noticed—its absence before?

"Where is she?" he demanded, his hands dropping helplessly.

Blaine looked conflicted for a moment, watching Starsky carefully as if to judge how to best to continue the conversation. Biting his lip, he reached into the pocket of his slacks and retrieved his smartphone. He cringed as he swiped through his camera roll, his finger eventually hesitating as his phone displayed a particularly horrific photo of Starsky's car. Exhaling heavily, he placed the phone in Starsky's outstretched hand.

"No," Starsky gasped, shocked tears filling his eyes as a lump settled in his throat.

The picture was wrong. Someone had made a horrible mistake, because there was no way—no logical reason—his beloved Camaro would ever look like this. It was destroyed, its skeletal remains burned beyond recognition.

"We found her buried among the debris of the Marcus house," Blaine said gently. "I don't know how she got there, but that's where she was. The theory is that somebody drove her through the rotted out walls of the kitchen, then set fire to the house to cover their tracks." Brows knitting, Blaine paused, his face sinking with regret as he grasped Starsky's forearm and squeezed. "Oh, kid, I'm so sorry. I know how much you loved that car."

"It's fine," Starsky lied thickly, placing Blaine's phone in the middle of the table as he swiped at his eyes.

The Camaro was his prized possession; the only tangible link he had left to his father. And now the cherished car was gone. A casualty of Hutch's interest in Simon Marcus, another thing the horrifying events had claimed.

"Where..." Starsky whispered, voice quaking with emotion. He couldn't stand the thought of her sitting abandoned in a lot. Forgotten and unclaimed to be crushed into an unrecognizable heap and disposed of with the rest of the city's trash. "Where is she now?"

"I don't know, bud," Blaine sighed. "Forensics went over her as soon she as she was found, but the fire didn't leave anything useful behind. She sat in the evidence lot for a few weeks, before Hutch requested she be set free and Ryan and Dobey gave him the green light. Of course, that was before."

"Before what?"

Sighing, Blaine removed his hand from Starsky's forearm and reached for his beer bottle. Taking a deep drink, his eyes became guarded as he, seemingly, debated what to say.

"Before what?" Starsky repeated, his voice demanding as his grief over the car transformed to fear.

"Before we knew what we know now," Blaine said hesitantly, his bottle clinking against tabletop.

"Which is?"

"How much do you know about Hutch's past?"

"What do you mean?" Starsky asked, struggling to maintain his composure as his heart pounded in his chest. No, he thought. They can't know about Hutch's past; please let them know anything but the truth.

"I mean, what do you know about how he grew up and what happened to him the summer he was seven years old."

"Nothing."

Starsky's lie fell flat, and watching him expectantly, Blaine inhaled in an overwhelmed fashion.

"You don't have to be afraid to tell me the truth, bud," he coaxed softly. "You've been to hell and back, and I want you to know that it's okay to be confused about what happened, it's okay to be scared—"

"I'm not confused," Starsky contradicted, his voice too soft and unconvincing. "And I'm not scared."

But Starsky was scared, not of Hutch—not anymore—but of what the future promised. Inhaling sharply, his gaze fell to the ground. He felt numb, overwhelmed by the sudden certainty that he was about to lose something he would never be able to get back. If the department knew about Hutch's history they'd never let him return. They'd strip him of his badge, and Starsky would be left off-center, partnered with a stranger, and struggling for footing in uncertain surroundings. He couldn't go back alone, Starsky had known that early on, but having Hutch by his side meant he didn't have to—Hutch had promised they would go back together, and he had to be allowed back, his stabilizing, protective presence was the only hope Starsky had of returning to his career.

"That's what I thought," Blaine said regretfully. Leaning back in his chair, he pinched the bridge of his nose, before grimacing and slapping his hand on the table.

Starsky jumped at the sound but refused to look up for fear of what he would see reflected in Blaine's eyes. Sadness, pity, or maybe even disappointment. Sadness and disappointment he could handle, but pity was something he couldn't endure.

"I don't have to tell you how all this looks, bud," Blaine said. "You're smart. I know you've put the pieces together—"

"What pieces?" Starsky's head snapped up.

"Listen," Blaine continued, ignoring Starsky's question as he gently grasped his wrist. "I know that you know what this looks like," he repeated, his voice too gentle, his eyes too somber. Blaine was speaking to him as though he was a victim, Starsky realized. He recognized the approach because he used too, when a skittish witness or battered spouse was too terrified to tell the truth. "I know what you know," Blaine said. "But I don't know how you feel. I need you to be brave enough tell me what Hutch did, so I can protect you from anything else he might do."

"He didn't do anything."

"You and I both know that isn't true, bud."

"It is," Starsky lied, pushing the memory of Hutch hitting him to back of his mind. It didn't matter, what Blaine thought he knew, or the truth of what Hutch had done. He wouldn't incriminate him; Starsky would never betray the man he loved.

"David," Blaine said, squeezing his arm supportively. "It's okay to be afraid of telling the truth—"

"I'm not afraid!" Starsky insisted but his tear-filled eyes and shrill tone negated his claim.

"It's okay—"

"It's not okay!" Choking on his words, Starsky knew it wasn't. Nothing was okay. He couldn't lose Hutch. No matter what happened, he refused to allow anyone to tear them apart.

"I know this is hard. I know you love Hutch very much, and it's difficult to accept when people we love hurt us, but you need to tell the truth."

The truth. Starsky closed his eyes, the words echoing in his head. How could he have been so stupid? This wasn't a causal lunch, it was covert interrogation, an official interview meant to coax him into incriminating his partner.

"What happened to Hutch has got nothing to do with what happened to me." Starsky cringed, face contorting with nervousness. "What _Simon Marcus_ did to _me_."

 _"What the darkness did to you,"_ a familiar voice hissed in the back of his mind. _"Hutch was in the darkness, how can you be sure he didn't coordinate what happened to you?"_

"The bunker was identical," Blaine said regretfully. "The one we found you in is a perfect match to the one Hutch was found in."

"That's impossible," Starsky breathed. Leaning over the table, he rested his head in his hands. Blaine was lying; there was simply no way that could be.

 _"Is it really impossible?"_ the voice challenged.

"Your injuries are oddly similar to the ones documented in Hutch's case file."

"They're not the same," Starsky whispered.

" _They are,"_ the voice said.

"No," Starsky murmured, in spite of his thoughts. Hutch didn't do this—he wouldn't have.

"I'm worried about you," Blaine said quietly. "And so is Dobey. This whole situation screams Stockholm Syndrome so loud that I can barely handle it. His behavior was sketchy toward you before you disappeared…"

"John, I'm not—" Bile rising his throat and stomach churning, Starsky couldn't finish his insistent statement. He wasn't Hutch's victim—his partner hadn't done this; he would never _do_ this.

 _"_ _You know what Hutch did,"_ the voice taunted. _"And you hate him for it, and if John has his way, so will everyone else."_

"I need him," Starsky whispered, anger building in his chest.

"You don't," Blaine assured. "You don't need—"

"We're done," Starsky interrupted, his voice wavering but demanding. "This conversation is over. Hutch didn't do anything, that's my story—my _statement_. He didn't do anything to hurt me and he will never hurt me. You be sure to document that verbatim in the report for whoever sent you to ask me about it."

Blaine's face contorted with guilt. "I'm so sorry; I didn't want to talk to you like this."

"But you had to get my statement somehow, right? And you thought you had a better chance of slipping me up—of getting me to admit something I didn't want to say if you took me to _fucking_ lunch!"

"No, I…" Blaine hesitated, rubbing his hands over his face. "I couldn't stand the thought of hauling you down to the precinct, putting you on display for the department, and having you cry on camera in one of those tiny interrogation rooms."

"I didn't cry," Starsky insisted, though he nearly had. Wet, angry tears clung to his eyelashes, threatening to trail down his cheeks any second and refute the firmness of his words. It was all so infuriating. Didn't anyone understand that he couldn't tell the truth about what had happened? He would never be able to tell the truth—about Hutch's involvement or what had really happened in the bunker—and it was slowly making him mad.

 _"_ _Or sick like your mother,"_ the voice hissed. _"You can't explain the unexplainable. You can't wish away the darkness that has wormed its way into the depths of your soul."_

"Yeah," Blaine sighed. "I know what you're thinking, bud, and you're wrong. I don't want to think Hutch did anything to you. You're like a son to me. I love you, and I'm glad that you love him—that he loves you—I'm happy you've found someone you can be honest with. But I'm sorry, I don't think he's doing the same for you. He's got problems that are larger than I think you even know about, and I can't ignore what I know about his past. I can't overlook his friendship with Simon Marcus…"

"Friendship?" Starsky yelled, his voice raising an octave making the word sound loud and shrill. Irrational, he thought quickly as he closed his eyes and forced a deep breath. He couldn't allow himself to lose control; there was too much at stake to fall apart now.

"... I can't ignore what the evidence is suggesting he did. I'm so sorry, but if you won't protect yourself from him, then I'm going to do whatever is necessary to keep you safe."

" _He knows,"_ the voice whispered. _"He knows everything, and he's going to make Hutch pay. He's going to take him away from you. They will take him away from you."_

"John, _please_ ," Starsky pleaded. "You don't know what you're talking about. You can't possibly know what _really_ happened."

"I know that you were brutalized by Simon Marcus and I know he didn't work alone. Someone you trusted gave him access to you."

"No! That isn't what happened—Hutch wasn't involved!"

"I thought you didn't remember what happened?"

" _What?"_ Heart pounding in his chest, Starsky was overcome by a chilling waive of uncertainty. "How would you know that?"

"Doctor Evans—"

"My records are _private_! You can't look at them, you can't use them against—"

"David, you are a victim in an open investigation," Blaine said, voice soft and calm, as though he was explaining a complicated concept to a small child. "You know as well as I do, that your medical records can be subpoenaed, that the department can procure them to justify official charges if a victim is too compromised, confused, or frightened to speak to authorities on their own behalf."

"And you think I'm compromised," Starsky said, angry tears streaming down his face. This conversation was unbearable, and the thought of losing Hutch inconceivable. This couldn't be happening; Chief Ryan and Captain Dobey _couldn't_ be allowing this.

 _"_ _John used to hold you in high regard,"_ the voice hissed. " _He valued your judgement, trusted your intuition, but now that's gone. How many times did he call you a victim? Were you counting? Oh, well, doesn't matter. He is right: you are a victim. You'll always be a victim. Hutch will be torn away from you and you'll spend the rest of your life being passed from person to person. Your wishes will never be respected, your opinion won't be valued. You're a victim; nobody will ever look at you the same again."_

"I think you are _very_ traumatized," Blaine whispered, his eyes sparkling with sadness. "After what you endured, how could you not be? I think, deep down, you know the truth about what happened, but your love for Hutch, your co-dependency and misplaced loyalty, prevent you from seeing him for the person he really is. Your need for him to be strong for you is holding you back from verbalizing the truth of what happened, because I think you're afraid of living a life without him. You're afraid of tainting the perfect picture you have of him in your mind."

 _"_ _He's right,"_ the voice whispered. _"You know he is. You don't want to see Hutch for who he really is. It's easier for you to deny the pain than it is to admit the truth."_

"If you charge Hutch, I'll never forgive you," Starsky threatened thickly. "If I lose him, I'll never speak to you again."

"I know. But if that's the cost of protecting you then it's something I'm willing to live with."

Xx

" _God_ - _damn_ it, Hutch!" Huggy screamed angrily, swiping his hand over the blood spilling from his split lip. Sitting heavily on a barstool, Hutch pressed a bag of ice to his swollen eye and shrugged, an action that only intensified Huggy's frustration. "What the hell is wrong with you? You need to stop being such a crazy fucker and check yourself—"

"What happened here?" Lucas Huntley asked, his eyes scanning the small specs of blood peppering the alcohol soaked floorboards of the bar. A pair of inform officers stood at the door, questioning the last two patrons in the building as a group of EMT's assisted the remaining fight participants on the other end of the room. "Anybody get sent to the ER?" he asked. Reaching to hook his finger under Hutch's chin, he smiled as Hutch promptly pushed his hand away.

"No," Huggy said. "Thank _God_."

"What are you doing here?" Hutch scoffed. "This isn't your beat."

"I was in the neighborhood." Huntley shrugged. "And with all the squawking on the scanner about a brawl at The Pits, I had to see what was going down. Who started it?"

"You're looking at him," Huggy growled, nodding at Hutch.

"What?" Huntley laughed.

"I didn't actually start it," Hutch said defensively.

"You baited the guy!" Huggy exclaimed.

"He was the one who threw the first punch!"

"I _know_ , I caught it!"

"With your face, I see," Huntley said, transferring his gaze from Huggy to Hutch. "Looks like he got a good one on you too. Where's Starsky, was he invited to this little soirée?"

"No," Hutch mumbled.

"Ah, lucky for the dude who hit you."

No, not lucky, Hutch thought, his uncovered eye widening with apprehension. Not lucky at all. "Starsky's with Blaine, Luke."

"You're kidding," Huntley exclaimed.

"I wish I was," Hutch whispered.

"Man, what is all hubbub about John Blaine?" Huggy grumbled.

"Nothing," Hutch said absently, his wide eyes locked on Huntley's protective gaze. "Doesn't matter, Hug."

"Like hell it doesn't!" Huggy fumed. "He's the reason you taunted that guy, isn't he? Your mood went sour the second I told you he picked Starsky up."

"What do you want to do, pal?" Huntley asked Hutch, his voice soft and understanding. "Want to go try find them or are you gonna wait it out?"

Hutch shrugged, transferring the ice pack from his eye to his swollen knuckles. He didn't know what to do. If finding Starsky and Blaine would help or hurt him, or if there was anything left to wait for.

"Pal?" Huntley prompted.

Swallowing thickly, Hutch's throat burned as he fought tears. All he wanted was to go home, to find a way to go back to how things were before. But it was too late for that now.

"There's something I got to tell you, Luke," he said, voice trembling. "Something that even you don't know."

"Whatever it is, we can work it out—"

"No." Tears spilled down Hutch's cheeks as he shook his head. "I don't think we can. You see I—"

Hutch's phone vibrated against the bar top, a low reverberating sound that echoed through the room and elicited the attention of the trio standing in front of the bar. Grabbing it swiftly, Hutch held it tightly in his hand, his heart plummeting in his chest as he read the text message displayed across the screen.

 **Starsky: I need you home NOW!**


	30. Chapter Thirty

**Current Day:**

Starsky was manic—Hutch knew that the second he walked through their front door. The living room TV was on, blaring some music video channel he didn't recognize—MTV, VH1 Videos or something else he hadn't bothered to pay attention to— and intermixed with the canned laughter of a sitcom blaring out of the speakers of Starsky's laptop, the echoes were overbearing and grinding—blending into a haunting chorus of mismatched sounds that intensified his nervousness and left him moving at glacial pace.

He didn't want to be here. He didn't want to deal with the consequences of what Simon Marcus had done or the fallout of the information Starsky inevitably knew now.

Lucky greeted him at the top of the stairs; tail down and whining nervously, he sat at Hutch's feet. Looking worriedly up at him, his dark eyes were giant saucers wide with concern, seemingly pleading for Hutch to fix whatever had sparked Starsky's frantic behavior.

"It's okay, pal," Hutch whispered, hoping the lie would be enough to calm at least one of them. "It's going to be okay."

But he knew it wouldn't be—it couldn't be.

Smoothing a few comforting pats over the dog's head, Hutch scanned the hallway, noting that the all the bedroom doors had been flung open. While Starsky's bedroom doorway was clean, his own was littered with the proof of Starsky's hysteria; a few books lay, wide open and face down, haphazardly scattered among the contents of his dirty laundry bin. He could hear Starsky's agitated grunts and a litany of swears that were nearly lost in the jarring background noise reverberating through the hallway.

He closed his eyes, his heart dropping helplessly as he forced a deep-chested inhale and ignored an overwhelming, demanding desire to run. Everything would be so much easier if he could find the courage to leave and never come back. And though he found comfort in the frantic thought, he knew it wasn't plausible to do such a thing. Leaving Starsky now wouldn't fix anything; it wouldn't make the evidence linking him to Simon Marcus or his partner's abduction suddenly disappear; it wouldn't calm John Blaine's worry; or prevent Dobey and Ryan from following through on what they intended to do.

It was too late to run away now.

It shouldn't have been this way, Hutch thought. There were so many other ways he could have chosen to share his past with Starsky. So many other times that would have been more appropriate—less damaging, less painful times where he could have controlled how his secrets were shared—occasions where Starsky would have had choice to leave or stay.

He should have told Starsky about his past after his father's death. If only he would have allowed Starsky to accompany him to Duluth for the funeral, then the truth would have been disclosed months ago. It wouldn't have been easy but it would have been simple; a graceful revealing of the trauma he had endured rather than allowing Simon Marcus and whatever power the man had held to worm its way between them. But Hutch hadn't done that because he was afraid, and now it was much too late.

"Where the _fuck_ are they!" Starsky bellowed. "Where the _hell_ did you put them?"

Lucky trailed on Hutch's heels as he walked slowly to his bedroom. Clenching the doorway, his heart sank as he took in the devastation Starsky's agitation had left behind. The bedroom was in shambles. The blankets had been torn off the bed, discarded on the floor next to the flurried contents of his nightstand, and having not found what he was seeking in either location, Starsky had turned his attention to the closet. The high hanging shelf had been cleared; a few empty shoe boxes lay at the foot of the bed, their contents dumped into one heap—a worn pair of brown wingtips drowning in an ocean of the few scattered keepsakes Hutch had hung on to.

Crouching on the floor, Starsky violently tossed clothing out of the tri-drawer dresser tucked away beneath his partner's hung clothes—his hands moving frantically, his eyes scanning for something he had yet to find.

Absently, Hutch wondered what John Blaine had said to compel his partner to ransack his bedroom—a room that Starsky had never had the courage to enter before—before realizing he already knew. Starsky was looking for the files—the ones both Vanessa and Doctor Evans had come upon by mistake—the medical records Hutch had hidden away at the beach house but hadn't dared bring to Venice Place.

"I'm home," Hutch said, soft shocked words leaving his mouth only to ring incessantly in his ears.

He wasn't sure why he bothered to say anything—nothing he could say would make things better now. Back still turned, flinging white t-shirts and boxer briefs over his shoulder, Starsky remained unaffected by his greeting—or presence—and suddenly Hutch felt like voyeur, as though he had intruded on a private moment that had nothing do with him. It was too strange—too surreal—to think that their bond had dissolved to this, leaving them each captive to this moment—Starsky destroying his bedroom as Hutch stood frozen in doorway, choking on regrets and unable to find the courage to enter the room or run away.

"Where are _they_?" Starsky growled. Slamming the empty dresser drawer shut, he stood in fury, hands clenched in white knuckled fists as he turned and assessed Hutch with fiery eyes.

Stung, Hutch took an unconscious step back. He had never seen his partner look him like that, nor had he seen Starsky look at anyone with such unrestrained resentment—not the vilest murderer they had arrested nor a perpetrator accused of the most horrendous crimes. Starsky's look said more than words ever could, and suddenly the statement Simon Marcus had taken great pleasure taunting him with came rushing back, echoing dreadfully in Hutch's mind in an infinite loop: _he knows_. And biting his lip nervously as he stared as Starsky, Hutch knew that he did. His partner knew everything; every last terrible detail he had never wanted Starsky to know was etched in the disappointed pain reflected in his partner's vivid blue eyes.

Starsky was livid and disgusted—just as Hutch had always imagined he would be.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" Starsky asked, voice quaking with apprehension—despite his angry demeanor.

Hutch realized his partner was afraid. Starsky's body language was furious, but there was terror hidden beneath that fury, too deep and too vast to fully disguise. He wanted to rush to comfort him but couldn't. Not with Starsky staring at him that way, his eyes sparkling like a wounded animal, piercing Hutch like vicious daggers as they set on pink swollen skin surrounding his fresh black eye.

"What happened?" Starsky nodded at the injury.

"Nothing." Hutch dismissed the question with a shake of his head. "What are you looking for?" he asked, grimacing as Starsky frowned in disgust. He shouldn't have asked the question, Hutch knew that, but it felt nice to say the words—it was comforting to hold on to the illusion, to have one last moment pretending his secrets were still safely buried in the past.

"Don't you dare," Starsky warned, his voice cracking with strain—the first viable evidence that he wasn't feeling as strong or dangerous as he was trying to convey. Turning in place, he hitched a breath, pressing his trembling hands over his eyes as his body became rigid with fear.

The bedroom was too small, Hutch realized, too foreign for Starsky's anger to triumph over his crippling panic. While his partner was improving, being cornered in an unfamiliar stifling environment was too much for Starsky to endure.

"Don't lie to me now, Hutch," Starsky said, a hint of hysteria to his tone, as he finally summoned the courage to turn back around. "There's no fucking point to it anymore."

"I never wanted to lie to you. I just didn't want to let you down. I just wanted to be who you thought I was."

Pursing his lips, Starsky shook his head in a pained manor, lifting his finger to touch the bandage on his cheek before dropping his hand to hang limply at this side. "Tell me where the files are."

"They aren't here."

"Where did you hide them this time?"

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me!"

"Well, it shouldn't!" Hutch snapped, immediately regretting the terseness of his tone as he watched Starsky jump and take a step back. "Shit," he swore under his breath, pinching his nose as he forced himself to stifle his nervousness and control his reactions. Screaming wasn't going to help either of them, and though he was struggling to feign otherwise, Starsky's anger had been fleeting, dissipating and transforming to overpowering palpable anxiety the longer Hutch watched him from the doorway.

Things hadn't been like this yesterday, Hutch thought regretfully. Things had been better; there hadn't been a hint of tension in the air and Starsky hadn't been threatened by his presence. But somehow that had changed, and Hutch was left unsettled, a sick feeling bubbling in his stomach as he likened Starsky's expression to the nervous way his partner had assessed him weeks ago, when he finally had agreed to speak to him again.

"I didn't want them here, okay?" Hutch admitted quietly. "After everything that happened, I didn't want to _bring_ them here. This was our new beginning, Starsk; they don't belong here."

"But where are they—?"

"What do you need to see the files for, huh? If Marcus didn't tell you what happened to me, then I know John Blaine did."

Hutch hung his head as a haunting memory of Starsky's rescue came rushing back—the only reason he could think of that would allow him to avoid explaining the absence of the files. The man who had harmed him as a child had been in the farmhouse that night—somehow Marcus had been able to include his presence—something Hutch had tried hard to ignore since finding Starsky, battered and beaten in the bunker. He didn't want to think about the man; there was no palatable reason, no rational explanation to how or why he would could have been there. It just was another thing that didn't make sense, another piece of the unsolvable puzzle that had been the events Marcus had meticulously conceived in order to ensure Hutch's place at his side.

But Marcus had died and Starsky had lived, and now Hutch was left shouldering the responsibly for everything that occurred.

"You saw him, Starsky," Hutch breathed, his face contorting with long repressed shame. "You saw the man who abducted me when I was a kid. I know you did, because I saw him too. He was there, inside Marcus's house; he did to you what he did me."

"There was no man," Starsky said, his tone quiet but obstinate as he ground his jaw against unwanted tears, stubbornly holding Hutch's gaze. "It was just you."

"That's impossible."

Hutch's skin tingled with an odd sensation, a horrible combination of dread and anguish. Starsky was lying—he had to be—but why would he lie about something they both knew? The man had been there, and Hutch hadn't been. Why were they being so careful to disguise truths they were both privy to?

"He was there, Starsky!" he insisted. "I saw him. He was the one that hurt you—"

"There was no man, Hutch. Just you."

" _No_." Hutch shook his head. "That's not true. That's not right. You're confused; you have be remembering it _wrong_."

Starsky flinched as his face set in an emotion Hutch didn't recognize—anger, terror, grief, and resignation all rolled into one horrible look. A devastating expression that Hutch struggled to name or understand why it was make him feel so culpable. He hadn't touched Starsky and, yet, that look was making him feel as though he had.

"Starsky—"

"Fine," Starsky whispered thickly. His shoulders sank under an unseen weight as unwanted tears dripped furiously from his eyes, splattering on the dark floorboards. "You're right; I'm wrong. You didn't do this. If that's the story you have to tell yourself then I guess that's what happened. I knew about your past because I saw the man too."

"Babe—"

"I don't want to talk about it anymore," Starsky grumbled, wiping swiftly at his cheeks as he pushed past Hutch to retreat down the hallway.

Mouth agape, Hutch remained frozen place, helpless do anything other than watch Starsky disappear into living room. This was all wrong, he thought. Something had gone incredibly awry between last night and right now. Blaine's opinion had shifted Starsky's point of view, leaving him frightened and confused. He longed to run after Starsky, grab him by the arm and force him to continue their conversation, to scream that he hadn't done anything to hurt him—that he would never had done whatever it was Starsky thought he had—that he wasn't responsible for the horrific things Marcus had planned. But he couldn't. His need for self-preservation outweighed his desire to hear or confide the truth.

It was too late to expect Starsky to understand, and much too late to be optimistic regarding the retribution the future held.

Xx

 _"_ _He doesn't know what he did."_

Cringing, Starsky ignored the voice in his head as he pulled the slimly tennis ball from Lucky's mouth and threw it at the patio enclosure with renewed force. It hit the wall with a thud, ricocheting toward the french doors as Lucky scurried after, catching it just before it threatened to soar into the glass.

 _"_ _Or he doesn't want to know,"_ the voice continued. _"He doesn't want to admit what he did. Then again, neither do you. Spewing some story about a man—the man who held him as a kid? There was no man, and now there are no files. The guy spends all his adult life holding on to proof of his dirty secret, hiding it where it can be easily found, and suddenly he doesn't want to do that anymore? Why would he do something like that? What would possibly motivate him to suddenly abandon something he's held on to for so long?"_

Retrieving the ball from an eager Lucky, Starsky struggled to ignore the questions as he adjusted his stance and wound up another fevered pitch.

 _"_ _Maybe he's guilty. Maybe he and Marcus planned the whole thing. After all, he took you there; he assaulted you in your home and brought you to Marcus. Maybe the darkness isn't real. Maybe the person torturing you was Hutch all along and he got rid of the files out of guilt, because he knew they could be used against him…"_

Lucky's toenails tapped frantically on the ground has he sprung after the ball. Starsky struggled to focus on the noise, but it wasn't enough to distract him from his worried thoughts.

 _"…_ _Maybe John is right. Maybe you're too loyal. Maybe your love and need for Hutch is clouding your ability to accept the truth. After all, he is acting incredibly guilty. Buying you a new house, giving you your own room, and as much space as you want. If this was any other time, he'd be losing his patience by now. He'd bully you into talking, not accommodate your silence. He'd force you to remember, not hold his breath and hope you couldn't."_

Starsky shook his head as threw the ball once more. The voice was wrong—it had to be wrong. Hutch didn't plan a thing, despite how everything appeared. But Blaine was right, too: there were too many correlations between what had happed to Hutch as a child and the injuries he had endured on the Marcus compound to be ignored. But Starsky couldn't tolerate the idea, he couldn't bear the thought, of Hutch— _his_ Hutch—being involved.

 _"_ _But he was already involved,"_ the voice hissed. " _Long before you were taken, he was involved. He conducted visits with Marcus behind your back, he wrote derogatory details about you in his reports. He undermined your instincts, declared you a gullible victim before he took you to Marcus. He knows what he did. He remembers it all."_

Though Starsky wanted to deny the words, he couldn't. And as he violently threw the tennis ball once more, he couldn't prevent Simon Marcus's previous words from adding to his doubt. _Everyone has a bit of darkness inside; Hutchinson is aware of his, there is a part of himself he will always struggle to contain. You allowed Hutchinson to break your body, to violently ravage your soul, just as you always succumb to his will._

The ball hit the french door with a solid crunch, leaving a small milky circle in the middle of the glass as the area around it groaned, splintering into a spider web of damage. Skidding to a stop in front of the door, Lucky paused, looking nervously between the slow rolling ball and Starsky.

But too focused on his torturous thoughts, Starsky was immune to the incident. Arms hanging limply at his sides, his face fell as he was overcome by uncertainty. Was that was he was doing now, succumbing to Hutch's will? He had given up his anger and surrendered the fight about the files quickly, because it was easier to bend to Hutch's versions of events than it was to debate them. It was more comfortable to believe that Marcus had allowed some man—or something—to hurt him than it was to confront the truth.

Starsky had been afraid of his partner—terrified even—of the prospect of being near him after being rescued. That was why he had spent weeks hiding in the safety of his childhood home—surrounded by his aunt and uncle, two people he knew he could always trust. He hadn't wanted to move back in with Hutch, he had done it because he had been encouraged to, damn near forced into the decision by the people around him. But he hadn't actually wanted to come back, because he knew then the truth he struggled to ignore now: Hutch had caused this. Marcus had wanted Hutch, but his partner had made his own choices.

Everything that had happened had been Hutch's fault.

"He did this," Starsky whispered, the words shattering what was left of his resolve. A chill ran through his body, leaving his bones aching and cold. Wrapping his arms tightly around himself, his heart thudded in his chest and his stomach churned with overwhelming grief.

It didn't matter what Blaine believed, because Starsky knew the terrifying truth. There wasn't a detective in the world that wouldn't connect Hutch to Starsky's abduction, that wouldn't associate the injuries he had suffered to the one's Hutch suffered years ago; and there wasn't a jury in the world that wouldn't convict Hutch—that wouldn't hold him responsible for the damage that had been done.

They didn't need him, Starsky realized—the same truth Blaine had explained hours before. They didn't need his statement to indict Hutch; in fact, his mental instability would only help the district's case. He was going to lose his partner, they were going to be torn apart in the most painful way possible—with the details of Hutch's past disclosed to the world and Starsky left broken, victimized and scandalized by the truth of what he had endured—just as Simon Marcus had always intended.

There was no way around it; there was no plausible way to deny what Hutch had done.

"I'm going to lose him," Starsky murmured. "They're going to take him away."

Staring numbly, he barely registered Lucky's presence as the dog paced around him, leaning his weight into Starsky's legs to elicit a reaction, before erupting into a series of high pitched whines and started barks. Standing limply, Starsky's body swayed, moving each time Lucky bushed against him, his knees threatening to buckle under his weight.

"Starsk, what happened to the door?"

Hutch's soft worried voice reached Starsky's ears, sounding muffled and far away as Lucky stopped circling him and someone grasped his shoulders tightly.

"Babe?" Hutch asked, hooking a finger under his chin and struggling to hold his distracted gaze. "Jesus, you're so pale. What's wrong?"

He should have felt comforted by Hutch's presence, Starsky thought gravely. He should have felt grounded under the weight of his partner's hand, safe in the closeness of their proximity. But he didn't feel either of those things; face crumbling, he felt suffocated by anguish.

"Starsky—"

"Tell me this a bad dream," Starsky demanded weakly. "Tell me that we'll wake up tomorrow at the beach house and things will be the way they used to be. That Simon Marcus isn't real and… that you _never_ …" He choked on a sob. _"Oh_ , _Hutch_ … _why?"_

"Baby, it's okay. Things are going to be okay—"

"No." Pulling from Hutch's grasp, Starsky shook his head violently, thick tears streaming down his face. "I-it's not okay. Nothing about this is _okay_! Why did this happen? Why would you do this to _me_?"

For a moment, Hutch looked confused, too shocked by the words spilling from his partner's mouth to reply.

"I don't understand," Starsky pleaded as he backed away from Hutch. " _Please_ , just make me _understand_. Why did you have to do this? Why did you let this happen?"

"I don't know. I'm so sorry, Starsk, but I don't know."

"Don't be sorry, _fix it_! Isn't that what you're always trying to do?"

"Buddy, I can't."

"You're lying!" Starsky screamed, his back abruptly hitting the patio wall. "God damn it, Hutch. Don't lie to me! Fix this. You can; I _know_ you can," he begged, pressing his palms to the top of his head in an overwhelmed fashion as his legs gave out and he sunk to his knees. "That's what you do: you fix things. If something terrible happens you make it better; it's your job to be strong, to protect me, and I can't stand the idea of you… I _can't_ …I _can't_ …. I _can't_ …" he repeated, his tone becoming irrational and strained. "You don't _understand!_ You have to stop lying—you can't lie about this anymore—because I have to be able to trust you. I can't lose you, Hutch. I _can't_ —"

"Starsky I'm not lying."

"How do I know that? How the hell am I supposed believe anything you say now? You hid your fucking past. You assaulted me and you _took_ me to him." Starsky's face distorted with disgust as he choked on a sob. "You knew where I was and you _left_ me there. You let _it_ torture me— _you_ tortured me!"

"I didn't want to. I couldn't help it. But Starsky, eventually, I came. I found you."

"You were too late." Starsky's lip quivered as his voice dissolved to a cracking whisper, "It's too late now. You may have found me, but I'm still looking for you. Where are you, Hutch? Where the fuck have you been since this whole thing started. I'm your partner; your best friend. You were supposed to _trust_ me, to protect me, to work with me, to cover me and have my back. But you couldn't do that with Marcus. Why couldn't you do that, Hutch?"

"I'm sorry."

"It's too _fucking_ late for sorry! Do you even know what they're planning to do? What Blaine is trying to talk Dobey and Ryan into doing? You can't stop them, and I can't protect you. Do you even know what this is going to cost us? What this whole _fucking_ thing has cost us?"

Hutch flinched as Starsky leaned over and his open hands hit the jagged pavement, scratching and cutting his fingers and palms. But Starsky was too upset to care; smoothing his hands back and forth over the rough material, he leaned forward, pressed his head in his bloody hands and cried harder. His heartbroken sobs filled the calm air, increasing in volume and length until they became too deep to hear, silent cries bookended by haggard breaths.

"I'm sorry," Hutch whispered, knowing the words weren't enough—they would never be enough for what had been done. And though he couldn't ease the pain of the past, Hutch could no longer hold himself back from trying to comfort his hysterical partner. Approaching him slowly, he knelt in front of Starsky, wanting to pull him close but preparing himself to be pushed away. He was surprised, however, when Starsky flung himself into his arms, clinging to him with such force that Hutch nearly fell over. "I'm sorry," he repeated, unable to silence the futile word. "I love you. I'm going to deal with this, I promise you I will," he vowed, holding Starsky tightly as he gave into his own tears.


	31. Chapter Thirty-One

**Current Day:**

"Are you going to tell me how you got that black eye?"

Scratchy and fatigued, Starsky's words hung in the evening air. Sitting on the ground next to him, their backs pressed against the greenhouse wall, Hutch shrugged, running his fingers through Lucky's fur. Lying between Starsky's extended legs, the dog glanced at Hutch before relaxing into the touch and settling his head heavily on Starsky's thigh, sighing contently and giving into the pull of sleep.

A peace had settled around the trio. An odd exhausted calmness had followed their tense interaction, a stillness that seemed to correct the fear that had crippled them for so long. They were too exhausted to fight, too apprehensive about the future to do anything but savor the fundamental comfort of their proximity.

"Are you going to let me look at your hands?" Hutch countered lightly.

"They're not too bad."

"Sure they aren't."

"I'll be fine," Starsky insisted, but looking at his palms he cringed. Though the majority of the blood had been wiped away—inadvertently absorbed by the back of Hutch's shirt when they had clung to each other—a stinging pain was beginning to make itself known. "It's just a few scrapes. Spray some Bactine on them, and they'll be fine."

Inhaling a deep chested breath, he held it, clenching his fists tightly and grimacing as the torn skin protested the tight movement. Exhaling, he forced himself to take solace in the pain, allowing it to remind him of everything that had been said and everything they'd yet to say.

"Don't do that," Hutch scolded. Covering Starsky's hand, he gently uncurled his fingers, allowing one hand to fall to his partner's lap while he held the other one tenderly, face up in the palms of his hands. Starsky was right: the wounds weren't too bad. But he could the feel the heat radiating off of the inflamed skin as the scratches threated to bleed again. "You're going to make them worse."

"That's not possible."

Hutch closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the truth hiding behind the quiet words. Starsky was right: with the consequences for his actions impending, it was impossible to make things worse.

"Well," he sighed. "No reason you should aggravate them, anyway."

"Why did this happen, Hutch?"

"It's because you ran your hands over the pavement, buddy." Hutch's stomach flipped as Starsky's mouth hung slightly agape, too shocked by his deflection to form an angry retort. I'm sorry," he added quickly, shaking his head in disgust.

"We have to talk about this. Too much is at stake not to be honest, now."

Starsky's tone was too determined to be discarded, the intensity of his gaze too penetrating to be ignored, and Hutch felt taken aback by a wave of familiarity. How often had they had conversations like this over the years? Calm but serious discussions that followed the more damaging of their inevitable fights, conversations detailing peaceful reiterations—or reformations—of the few relationship rules they promised to abide by. But this conversation wouldn't be like any they'd had before, and it was impossible for Hutch not to be afraid.

"I know," Hutch agreed.

"I found your files." Starsky shrugged, venturing the first confession. "Not today," he added, seeing Hutch's face contort with a confused frown. "It was a long time ago."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"I don't know. I wanted to. But were fighting so much, you know? I wanted to tell you that I knew and it didn't matter. But I didn't want to take your secret away or change the power you thought you had by burying it. I knew you'd tell me when the right time came."

"It isn't the right time. If you know fine, but don't make me recount it."

"There's no point of hiding it now. I know, and you know that I know. Why can't you just tell me? "

"Not now. I'll tell you sometime, Starsky—I swear to God I will—but I can't right now. I can't put that on you on top of everything else."

"Why is it okay for me to need you but not for you to need me? Why is it okay for you to know what happened to me but not for me to know the truth about what happened to you?"

"It isn't okay! Believe me, I _know_ that."

"I need to know why this happened, and why it looks so incriminating now."

"What makes you think I know?" Hutch asked, staring numbly at smashed glass on the french door. It was odd that something so shattered could hold its shape. That despite the discoloration and damage, the glass had yet to allow a shard of its material collapse on the ground. "What makes you think I understand it any more than you do?"

"You _have_ to understand," Starsky insisted. Pulling his hand from his partner's palm, he grasped Hutch's hand, entwining their fingers in a white knuckle grip as he continued in an agitated tone, "Hutch, Marcus wanted _you_. Not me. Don't sit there and tell me you don't know why."

But Hutch wasn't certain he knew why, and though he wanted to tell the truth, his fear was deep-seeded, too irrational to be ignored. He felt confused and threatened; grateful and relieved. He couldn't reconcile his old fear with a starling new awareness. Vanessa discovered his past and she left, and, yet, Starsky knew and had stayed. Vanessa couldn't wait to get away from him, but Starsky was holding his hand.

Overcome by nervous energy, Hutch's arm trembled, his gaze setting guiltily on their blood covered hands. He could feel the fire of Starsky's cuts, burning fervently as the pressure forced trickles of blood to gather beneath their palms. Pooling until it dripped, staining the thighs of their respective jeans. And with his throat burning and tears in his eyes, Hutch realized Starsky had lied, too. The wounds on his hands weren't minor—scratches would never bleed like this— something Hutch had known from the moment he looked at them but didn't want to press for fear of dissolving their peace, for fear of taking Starsky's control and admitting the pain his actions had caused.

Panic clenching his heart, Hutch tried to pull his hand away but Starsky held strong—his damaged grip holding Hutch accountable, the strength of his unwavering stare forcing him to finally voice what he knew.

"I was afraid, okay?" Hutch admitted tersely. He was tired of denying it, of acting stronger than he knew he'd ever be. His fear had set Marcus's plan in motion; his innate determination to never admit how broken the truth still made him feel. "Marcus took you because I was afraid of what he knew. I was afraid of what you'd do if he told you. I was terrified that it would change things, that it would change the way you—"

Lower lip trembling, Hutch's nerve disappeared in an instant, leaving him sick with guilt and regret. He should have told Starsky the truth long before now; this was a horrible moment to be having this conversation. There were too many other things to he needed to ensure Starsky knew, too many other lose ends to tie up before morning inevitably came.

"You were afraid I would leave you like Vanessa did," Starsky finished. "And Marcus used that fear against you."

Hutch snorted. How could Starsky possibly summarize the crippling panic that had consumed him in such a calm adept way? "I don't want to talk about this anymore tonight, Starsk. I think we've exhausted the subject—"

"Well, we're going to talk about it, Hutch."

"I don't think we should. _Please_ , Starsk."

"No!" Lucky groaned as Starsky shimmied himself away from Hutch, displacing the disappointed dog and forcing him to stand and seek a new napping spot. "Things don't always get to be your way. You don't get to choose what we talk about or when. I'm done _succumbing_ to your will…"

"Succumbing to my will?" Hutch's face was etched with confusion.

"…I'm done taking orders from you..."

"I don't—"

"…We're going to do what I want to do for once..."

"Calm down," Hutch ordered gently.

"Don't tell me what to do!"

"Okay," Hutch placated, holding his hands up in surrender. "I'm sorry—"

"Don't be sorry! I'm so sick of sorry. What is sorry anyway? It's a five letter word that loses all meaning the second it leaves _your_ mouth!"

"Baby," Hutch said cautiously. "What would you like me to say?"

"The truth!"

"I already told you—"

"It isn't enough."

"Okay," Hutch whispered, his eyes clouding with pained regret. He didn't want to upset Starsky tonight—not again—but it was too late for that now. "What do you want to know?"

"Did you plan this?" Starsky's eyes widened with fear. "Did you and Marcus—"

"No."

"Why did he want you?"

"I already told you—"

"You didn't!" Starsky screamed.

"I was afraid of the truth," Hutch said quickly, his rushed words hanging in the air as his heart skipped a beat. He had been afraid, though not nearly as afraid as he was now.

Gaze turning upward, he stared at the sky, silently grateful for the sun hanging high in the horizon. They still had a few hours of daylight left—enough time to finish their conversation and ensure Starsky was shepherded back into the safe confines of the apartment before dark. Who was going to make sure that happened tomorrow night, he wondered suddenly, nervousness clenching his stomach muscles—or the night after that. Who was going to be able to keep Starsky on track once tomorrow came?

"Hutch?"

"It was very complicated, Starsky," Hutch whispered, struggling to maintain his composure as helplessness filled his chest. "Marcus knew things about me and I didn't understand how or why. It didn't make any sense. He knew about us, what we are to each other; he knew about my father, all the things he tried so hard to cover up; he knew about me, and all the terrible things I tried so hard to run away from. I didn't want to believe that it was real—I was afraid, because this man— _Marcus_ —knew everything I ever wanted to forget. He wanted you because I was stubborn. I was too stupid to listen to you. I didn't try to tell the truth until was too late." He snorted sadly, lifting his hand helplessly in the air. "An ongoing theme in my life," he remarked humorously.

Captive to his distress, Starsky remained immune to Hutch's remorse. "Why didn't you come for me sooner?" he asked quietly. Pressing the back of his head against the patio wall, he moved his free hand to pick nervously at the tear-sodden bandage on his cheek. Running his fingertips over the material, he felt it crumble beneath his touch and he abandoned the movement, his grief-stricken gaze falling to the ground.

"Do you want me to get you a new bandage?" Hutch asked.

Breath coming in thick labored gasps, Starsky pursed his lips and shook his head.

"Do you want to take that one off?" Hutch offered, knowing the suggestion would be ignored. "It's got to be uncomfortable against your skin—"

"Answer the question, Hutch. Why didn't you come for me?"

"Oh, _Starsk._ I don't know."

"You know."

Hutch closed his eyes at the accusation. He didn't want to explain why he hadn't come—to put a voice to the dread that had embedded itself into his heart— or offer Starsky another explanation he wouldn't accept. Hutch hadn't come because he was afraid, but it wasn't right to dilute such an overcomplicated emotion with such a simplistic term. It wasn't right that Starsky didn't know how much of a coward he actually was.

"I didn't come for you," Hutch said, his voice haunted, "because I was afraid. I kept hearing this voice in my head and there was blood staining my hands. I don't remember hitting you, Starsky. I don't remember taking you to him. But I know it happened—I've always known—it's like a fragmented image from a dream or a memory of movie you can barely remember watching. I knew what I had done, but I didn't remember doing it. I couldn't _picture_ myself doing _that_. I didn't come for you sooner, because I was afraid of what I find. I was afraid of discovering something else I didn't remember, that I had done something much worse than hitting you."

"It couldn't get much worse than what was done," Starsky said despondently. "But then again, you know that. You wouldn't tell me the truth, so it made you show me instead."

Chill crawling up his spine, Hutch inhaled a startled breath. It was the same claim Starsky made in the bedroom, the words he hadn't the courage to investigate or accept. But that had been then and this was now, and they were running out of time—soon it would be too late to understand the truth—and Hutch couldn't ignore the statement or the horrible dread it was filling him with.

"What do mean _it_ made me show you?" he asked.

"You were there, too; you did to me what was done to you."

"What are you _talking_ about? Starsky, I wasn't there. I came for you, but I wasn't there."

"Yes, you were," Starsky disagreed absently, his eyes frozen on the shadows threating to engulf him. "You were there but you weren't." Pulling his knees to his chest, he circled them with his arms, resting his chin on his kneecaps as his gaze fixated on a darkened corner of the patio. "It wasn't you but it was."

Hutch followed his gaze, struggling to decipher what Starsky was starting at—anxiously trying to understand what had prompted his partner's demeanor to change so fast. One moment he was pressing him for information and now he was withdrawn, his haunted stare fixated on something unseen.

"What was me?" he asked.

"It was," Starsky murmured as though Hutch should have already understood. "The darkness," he added, nodding at the dark corner of the patio.

Hutch's stomach lurched as the term triggered something deep inside of him—a dormant detail that had been somehow overlooked. He should have been confused by Starsky's explanation, perplexed by what his previous words had implied he'd done. But he wasn't; he couldn't be, because while there were so many things he didn't understand, this was one Hutch realized he did.

There had been something in the house, the thing that had become angry at him when he had accused it of being Marcus. The entity that had turned itself into the man, the unseen thing who had hissed proud, joyful words in the bunker, when Starsky was hysterical and Marcus was finally dead.

There was always something else there—he had known that—it had used Marcus as a shield and allowed him the power to complete his horrific deeds. It had fed Hutch's fear and obsession with Marcus. It had been the voice he heard in his head while Starsky was missing; the entity that had dissolved his sanity, forcing him to putting an array of helpless, unstable behavior on display for Huggy, Captain Dobey, John Blaine, and various others to see.

It had planned everything—things had unfolded exactly the way it had intended them to be.

"Oh, _God_ ," Hutch whispered.

Bile rose his throat as he leaned over, resting his head mournfully in his hands. He felt sick, seconds away from vomiting and passing out as black dots danced in front of his eyes. This couldn't be happening; there were so many terrible things he could endure but not this. Starsky had been terrified of him after being rescued from the compound; refusing to return home, he had only agreed to move into Venice Place when Hutch accommodated his demands for a separate bedroom and deadbolt locks lining the door. It was concerning behavior, Hutch knew that, but he had dismissed it because of his guilt. He had thought Starsky was angry, nervous, even, because of what he had done. But the details came together in an instant, leaving Hutch feeling sick and devastated as he struggled to accept the damage that had been done. Starsky couldn't verify that he'd seen the man who had tortured Hutch as a child, because he hadn't. The darkness had shown him someone else.

" _No_ ," Hutch whispered dreadfully.

"It wore your face while it touched me…"

" _No_."

"It used your voice when it spoke to me…"

" _No_."

"Marcus thought that I shouldn't love you anymore." Brows furrowing, Starsky bit absently at his bottom lip, confusion weighing down his timid features. "That knowing the darkest parts of you should have made me hate you instead."

"Starsky, I didn't do this." Squeezing his eyes shut, Hutch shook his head. "I mean, I did, but I didn't. I wasn't _there_. I didn't touch you. I didn't hold you hostage, and I certainly didn't rape you. Baby, I didn't do any of it. I would _never—"_

"John Blaine thinks you did. He thinks you were in on it with Marcus."

The soft statement was far from an accusation, but it hit Hutch hard, leaving him breathless and overcome by helplessness. He couldn't contend with Blaine if Starsky didn't reject the claims—he wouldn't be able to live with himself if his partner actually believed what he had saw. Surely, Starsky knew—deep down, he had to know—that he would never hurt him. But despite the thought, Hutch's shoulders sank as sliver of the truth broke through. Though he hadn't done what Blaine believed he did, he had hurt Starsky. Assaulting him, he had taken Starsky to Marcus.

Lips forming a devastated line, Hutch fought an irrepressible waive of tears. All these weeks, he had been apologizing to Starsky for what he knew he was responsible for but never had the thought crossed his mind that his confused partner might be holding him accountable for something else.

"What do you think?" Hutch asked, forcing an even tone in spite of his tears. "Please, just…" he hesitated, realizing his plea was the same thing Starsky had requested from him. "Just tell me the truth."

"I don't know," Starsky admitted, staring at the cuts marring his palms. "I don't want to believe it's true—I don't think I really do—but, Hutch, I'm scared too. I think I can forgive you for just about anything, but I can't lose you. I told John that, but he doesn't understand. He's intent on talking Dobey into pressing charges."

"I know."

"How do you know?"

"Dobey called me last night." Clearing his throat, Hutch wiped at his tears, forcing himself to regain his composure. He had come too far to fall apart now, and the renewed fear shining in Starsky's wide eyes promised another emotional collapse. "He and Ryan have summoned me for an official inquiry."

"No," Starsky breathed. "When?"

"Tomorrow."

"I want to go with you," Starsky demanded, his voice shaking with dread. "I—I have to go, to explain what really happened, to tell them that you didn't—"

"No, Starsky." Scooting closer to sit cross-legged in front of his panicking partner, Hutch grasped his shoulders gently, stifling his own reservations regarding the meeting to gently contend with his partner's fear.

" _Please_ ," Starsky begged, tears spilling from his eyes. "I have to go. Just let me—"

"You just let me tell them the truth, huh?" Hutch soothed. Releasing his partner's shoulders, he forced a comforting smile and wiped at Starsky's tears with his thumbs. "It's time."

"Hutch, you can't…"

"I don't want you there if it goes bad. I talked to Huggy, he's going to come by and stay with you until… well… until I know what I'm up against."

"Don't go," Starsky pleaded.

"Buddy, I have to."

"No," Starsky sobbed, "you don't. _Please_ , Hutch, you can't go. I can't believe this is happening. I can't believe that after everything, I have to lose you too."

"Hey," Hutch said, his low voice deep. "You're not going to lose me, okay? I told you I was going to fix this, and this is the only way I can."

"What about me? What going to happen to me if you can't come back?"

"I'll come back."

"That's a lie."

"It's the truth," Hutch assured, surprising himself with the veracity of his words. "Buddy, I'm done being afraid."

"But I'm not," Starsky whimpered, clenching the collar of Hutch's shirt. "I'm a cop too, Hutch, I know what's going to happen when you walk into that inquiry. They're setting you up; they wouldn't be having the meeting if they didn't think they enough evidence to pin it all on you. They're going to record everything you say and slap cuffs on the second you relax—"

"When have you ever known me to relax?"

"Don't joke about this!" Face crumbling, Starsky threw his arms around Hutch, grinding his forehead into his shoulder as his words came in wet, tearful gasps, "This… isn't… funny…"

"I know it's not."

"They _know—"_

"It's okay." Holding Starsky tightly, Hutch savored the moment, struggling to memorize every detail—from the way his partner smelled to the warmth of his body against his chest—for fear they would not be given another. "They're going to record my interview," he added softly, holding Starsky tighter. "They're going to ask me about everything that happened to me when I was kid, and when I talk to them I'm going to pretend I'm talking to you. I'll make sure Luke gets you a copy, and when you feel up to it, I want you to watch it, okay? I want you to hear everything that I should have shared." He smiled tearfully as Starsky nodded, pressing the side of his head firmly into his collarbone. "I want you to get better, okay? I want you to start talking about what happened in the bunker. If you don't feel comfortable with Evans, then find someone else, but I don't want you to hang on to it…"

" _Stop_ ," Starsky pleaded.

"…You're going to get better, and then you're going to go back to work; you're going to keep doing all the things you love…"

"Stop…"

"Merle has your car." Hutch smiled. "Starsk, you were right about him, the Camaro was a mess but it'll be cherry when gets done with it…"

"Hutch, _please_ …"

"And I want you to keep an eye on Keiko, okay? You're responsible for making sure he survives baseball this year—"

"No!" Starsky cried, pulling back to look at his partner with tear-filled eyes. "I know what you're doing, and this isn't good-bye. You're coming back after your interview. I'm not doing a _damn_ thing you asked me to, because you'll tell the truth and then they'll let you go, and you'll come back and we'll… we'll go back to work _together_."

"This isn't good-bye," Hutch repeated solemnly, though neither man believed the words. Running his fingertips through Starsky's wayward curls, he leaned forward, planting a kiss on his forehead before pulling him back into his arms. "This isn't good-bye," he repeated as Starsky clung to him, sobbing hysterically.

Closing his eyes Hutch took a deep breath. There were so many things he was responsible for, so many agonizing moments and actions he couldn't take back now. His secrets had facilitated what happened; his aversion of the truth had fed into Marcus and whatever evil the man had been adherent of. But in the end he hadn't done what was expected—he hadn't followed through on what any of them had dreamed. Marcus had died and Starsky had lived, and if his partner's life had come at the cost of his freedom, then it was a price he would gladly pay.


	32. END PART ONE

**Current Day:**

"Now, remember what we talked about," Lucas Huntley said, his voice deep and paternal, as he stood in front of Hutch in Metro's slow moving elevator.

Hutch nodded, pulling nervously on the sleeves of his button up dress shirt. He should have worn a tie, he thought frantically, or at least a jacket to compliment his dark dress pants—Chief Ryan's disdain for casual dress was notorious—but body alive with nervousness, he hadn't been able wear either item. The jacket had felt too claustrophobic, the tie more so, and choking on panic he had abandoned both articles of clothing moments after putting them on.

Though the tenseness of their previous interaction had eased, Starsky's terror over Hutch's meeting with Dobey and Ryan had lingered, merging with the devastating weight of what he had disclosed, forming an irrepressible volume of anguish and responsibility in Hutch's chest that refused to be silenced. He had caused this—and the knowledge of what he had been responsible for was so much more than he could bear.

"Don't volunteer information," Huntley continued, struggling to mask his own tension. "You let them ask the questions. Keep your voice calm and watch your body language. Don't fidget. Don't avert your eyes. If they start pressing about what happened to Starsky, you don't know a thing, okay? You're gonna have to be upfront about what happened when you were a kid—you can't tiptoe around what they already know—but if they ask about what happened to Starsky at the Marcus Compound you don't know because you weren't there."

"I wasn't there," Hutch repeated, his pained tone too soft and absent to be believed.

"You're gonna have to be more convincing than that, pal."

Hutch grimaced. Huntley was right but he wasn't sure he could, not with Starsky's tearful accusations echoing torturously in his head, and not with the sick feeling that had taken up residence in the pit of his stomach. Had he done the terrible things John Blaine was intent on holding him responsible for?

"Come on," Huntley coaxed. "Everything is going to be okay. You can do this. Just tell the truth."

"Okay." Huntley made it sound easy, but Hutch wished he knew what the truth really was. Marcus had influenced his behavior long before he had taken Starsky to the compound, what else had the dubious man persuaded him to do? "Starsky thinks I did it," he added, face falling under the weight of the words. "That I did _all_ of it."

"He tell you that?"

"Yes— _no_ —I don't know. He doesn't know for sure what he saw or what he thinks now."

"And?"

"And what?"

"And what's he going to do about it?" Adjusting Hutch's crooked shirt collar, Huntley's hands lingered behind, gripping his shoulders and squeezing comfortingly. Avoiding his reassuring gaze, Hutch stared at the floor. "Listen, pal, no matter how confused Starsky is now and what Blaine wants to think, there is no way in hell you did this."

"You don't know that. Nobody does." Hutch's heart sunk as he realized, that with Simon Marcus's death, no one ever would. Despite his accusations, Starsky remained unable to make sense of his fear filled memories and Hutch's were fragmented, tortured glimpses of feelings and images that seemed more dreamlike than moments from reality.

"I do because I know you. Do you think for a second, if I thought you were capable of something like this, that I would have stuck my neck out for you? That I would have recruited you and kept your secrets all these years? I wouldn't have, but I did because I know you." Huntley pressed his index finger to Hutch's chest. "I know what's in here, and so does Starsky."

"But he doesn't," Hutch objected. "He doesn't know what happened, not really."

"Yes, he does. Let me tell you something about that partner of yours, he doesn't do the victim routine; if you had done something he couldn't forgive you for—something truly horrible—then he'd be gone. He might not take it as far as Blaine would like, but there would be no working things out, and no trying again. The two of you would be done—for good. He'd be itemizing his injuries, not digging in his heels trying to save you."

"Luke, he's confused."

"And so are you," Huntley said emphatically. "Hutch, listen to me, okay? Simon Marcus was a monster. He preyed on people; he used you and he hurt Starsky. You didn't cause this; Starsky got hurt and you feel guilty, and I understand it's more than that. Marcus didn't just hurt your partner he attacked your spouse. But if you walk into that inquiry looking at Dobey and Ryan the way you're looking at me, then the truth isn't going to matter because you're going to incriminate yourself."

Looking at Huntley sadly, Hutch longed to make him understand. "How can I defend myself when I don't know what I'm responsible for?"

The elevator chimed as the doors crawled open, displaying the pair to the sparsely filled hallway leading to Chief Ryan's office. Dobey stood paces away, his face set in an unreadable expression as he nodded at Huntley, then waived at Hutch, his thick fingers indicating for his detective join him.

"You let them decide, okay?" Huntley forced a smile. "Just tell the truth. I'll be here after, to help you deal with whatever comes next."

Xx

Standing in Hutch's bedroom, Starsky held his partner's faded gray and blue flannel shirt tight to his chest. Inhaling deeply, he breathed in a mixture of familiar smells, nostrils flaring as the soft fabric tickled his nose and transported him to another time.

The night had passed quickly after their panicked conversation on the patio. Emotionally taxed, he and Hutch had spent the remainder of the evening on the couch, allowing ceaseless dialogue of irreverent television programming to fill their ears while their minds remained weighted by what was to come. Starsky didn't remember falling asleep but when he woke up he was alone, tucked under cozy blankets in the safety of his bedroom. His door was open but the apartment was quiet, and emerging from the room he discovered Hutch had gone but Huggy had arrived. Sitting quietly at the timber kitchen island, their friend was drinking coffee and flipping lazily through a magazine. Huggy didn't speak, but his forced smile and the sadness glistening in his eyes said more than words could, and too overcome by it all, Starsky had escaped to Hutch's bedroom, to be supervised by Lucky as he frantically searched for the flannel shirt.

He didn't know what made him think of the shirt, or why he needed it now—why he felt the panic building in his heart could only be eased by obtaining the one piece of Hutch's wardrobe he seemed destined not to find. It was the shirt Hutch was wearing when Starsky finally agreed to see him. The familiar shirt that, when enveloped in the first hug they had shared in weeks, had reminded Starsky of who Hutch really was—and who they had been together. It hadn't been enough at the time to soothe the pain of what had been done and it still wasn't, but he had ravaged Hutch's bedroom—for the second time—to find it, struggling to hold on to a glimmer of hope threatening to be damped out by the seriousness of Hutch's glaring absence. Heart pounding and tears welling in his eyes, he had torn through the closet, inspecting both hanging clothes and dresser drawers for the item of clothing he had eventually found buried at the bottom of his partner's dirty clothes bin.

The weight of the soft material felt good in his hands, and he was comforted by the crisp clean smell of dryer sheets and undertones of sweat and Hutch's cologne. Exhaling a thick breath, he closed his eyes as he gave into tears, pressing the shirt to his mouth to muffle his deep chested sobs.

Hutch had left, and he hadn't said goodbye.

Xx

Sitting in the small boardroom, Hutch looked at the men on the opposite side of the table and stifled a frown. He had expected a panel of people; he had anticipated John Blaine and an officer from IA to be present, but neither Captain Dobey nor Chief Ryan, their faces set in twin grim expressions, gave any indication that others would be joining them.

"I suppose I don't need to explain why you were asked here today," Ryan said gruffly.

Hutch shook his head. Further explanation would have been welcome but he wasn't going to request one. Still, there were many questions racing through his mind—like why he was being interviewed in a camera-less boardroom rather than in interrogation, or why there weren't more people in the claustrophobic confines of the room?—that were destined to remain unanswered, as he had every intention of abiding by Luke's advice.

"Kenneth," Dobey said seriously.

"Hutch," Hutch said quickly, cringing as the correction spilled from his mouth. But it had to be said; he couldn't bear his superiors addressing him by his first name in the same disappointed tone his father had used. They could call him anything they wanted to, but not that name—not with what they suspected he had done. "I'm sorry," he added. "Nobody calls me that. I just..." He swallowed thickly, a wave of nervousness threatening to overwhelm him as his father's damaging words came rushing back. _With all the things that have been taken from you, and you still allow them to strip you of your name. The only unbroken thing you have left_. "I prefer, Hutch," he whispered—the same bleak response he had provided his father the last time he had seen him.

He wouldn't explain his preference for what his father had referred to as a bastardization of his surname to Dobey and Ryan. He couldn't look them in the eye and disclose what he had never had the courage to tell his father. It was as complicated as it was simple. He didn't allow people to call him his first name because it wasn't who he was. Kenneth and Hutch weren't the same the person—they couldn't be. Kenneth was a shadow of a little boy; molested, beaten, and abandoned in a decrepit bomb shelter in the Midwest. Hutch was a cop pushing middle age; fierce, brave, and strong. One had very little to do with the other—up until now, at least.

Averting his gaze to the table, his hands tightly clenched on his lap, Hutch realized that, in this moment, he felt more like Kenneth than Hutch. There was a brokenness inside of him, a burning devastation that could only be accessed in moments of great distress or full-bodied fear, and looking at his superiors, he was reminded of what he had known for days. He had no control over the outcome of this meeting; he was as powerless now as he had been when he was seven years-old. Too young to realize there were people who meant to do others harm, and too old to hang on to the illusions of the safety of his small town life in Esko.

Hutch closed his eyes, suddenly assaulted by a flurry of memories better left ignored. His hometown was the largest lie of them all; he wasn't from Duluth—not really—he had been born there but his family had resided in the small township of Esko. Though they were only fifteen miles away, they were worlds apart. Kenneth had spent his childhood years exploring vast landscape surrounding Esko, but Duluth was where, years later, hints of Hutch had finally begun to emerge.

He couldn't admit being from Esko for fear of what people would discover. Dated local news articles, links to true crime blogs, and even a Wikipedia page dedicated to the devious deeds of his captor, could all be located via google—if the searcher knew what they were looking for. The local media had called his kidnapper a monster, but Hutch had only ever been able to call him by his real name: Kenneth.

"Hutch." Ryan nodded curtly, his face firm with authority. For a terrible moment, Hutch nearly expected him to repeat his father's familiar demand: _what do you have to say for yourself?_

His father never understood, Hutch thought grimly. He never really comprehended the trauma of what had been done or the felt the sting of the innocence that had been lost. He had paid for Hutch's therapy, for his schooling, and the down payment on his house, but all Hutch really wanted was for him to understand. To look at him as the son he once was, not as a fractured child whose past needed to be carefully disguised.

"I had hoped that with everything David Starsky had endured, that the events surrounding Simon Marcus's death would be quickly forgotten," Ryan continued. "But certain things have come to light that threaten to make that impossible."

Dobey cleared his throat, smoothing his palm over the top of a coffee stained manila file, its yellowing faded label clinging to the edge of it by a thread. Hutch's heart dropped, his stomach lurched as he realized what rested underneath his superior's hands.

"Where did you get those?" he breathed.

"It doesn't matter," Dobey said.

"Those are my files." Feeling lightheaded, Hutch's words came in a breathless gasp.

"Well, yes," Ryan interjected. "They are—"

" _No_." Hutch shook his head emphatically. "You don't understand." But neither did he because it couldn't be, yet, somehow it was. The files were the same ones he had kept for hidden years; the ones Vanessa, Doctor Evans, and Starsky had all discovered; and the very files Hutch had destroyed after buying Venice Place. The appalling documents he had drunkenly dosed with kerosene and burned in the barbeque on his last night at the beach house. "Those are _my_ files."

Ryan and Dobey looked at each other. Though their expressions were veiled, their eyes, shining with worry, were telling. They were choosing their words carefully, assessing him as though he was a flight risk, seconds away from breaking down and running from the room.

"Hutch, why didn't you tell us?" Dobey probed.

"Tell you what?"

"What Simon Marcus knew?"

"What makes you think he knew anything?" Hutch choked, the words forced as he struggled with panic. Marcus had known everything, but what were Dobey and Ryan privy to?

"Ken," Ryan said, his low voice a warning.

" _Hutch_ ," Hutch said insistently.

"Hutch," Dobey said, eyeing him seriously. "We know. You can stop this act."

"You know," Hutch repeated dumbly. They had his files; they knew the truth, but the truth about what? "Where did you get those files?"

"Blaine's team found them," Ryan said gruffly. "Under the ashes of the Marcus house. There was a steel box hidden in a burrowed out portion of the foundation. It contained your files, as well as other things."

"What kind of other things?" Hutch pressed.

Ryan shook his head. "That's not important."

"Then what is important?" Hutch whispered, leaning back in his chair and lifting his hands. How had his files been found on Marcus's property? He had burned them, consuming them with white-hot flame until they were nothing more than ashes to be displaced by the wind. They had been destroyed, but sitting on the table they were preserved, looking as aged and stained as the day he had unearthed them from the spare bedroom closet. It didn't make any sense. The details Starsky had disclosed to him the night before and the unspoken accusations lingering between him and his superiors echoed in his mind, making his heart drop and his stomach churn. It didn't matter if he couldn't remember what he had done because it had happened. There was no of changing what Starsky had endured because of him. "Why am I here? Are you accusing me of something?"

"No," Dobey said.

"Not exactly," Ryan amended.

"But," Hutch objected, a hint of madness in his voice. He needed to take responsibility what had happened—somehow he had to make things right. He couldn't bear it any other way. "I thought that Blaine had convinced you of my guilt. That there were so many correlations between what happened to me and what happened to Starsky that you couldn't overlook them." His eyes shined with a glint of desperate anger. This had happened for a reason; someone had to be held responsible, and if his superiors wouldn't accuse him then he'd condemn himself. "That the two of you were so worried about Starsky that you couldn't handle the thought of us—"

"Hutch," Dobey warned.

"No!" Hutch insisted. He felt a rush of self-loathing as furious tears filled his eyes. Marcus had died but he was still here, and there had to be retribution—something that would give meaning to Starsky's pain and what he had endured. They couldn't let it go, and neither could he. "I can't stop. I don't understand. You have the _fucking_ files, don't you? You know what happened to me. How it all fits together. How I couldn't get past—the _horrible things_ —that were done to me so I had to—"

"Stop," Dobey said firmly, his penetrating gaze gleaming with sorrow as Hutch struggled to control his tears. "It doesn't matter now."

"No, it doesn't," Ryan agreed authoritatively. "Hutchinson, your guilt regarding this matter aside, I do not believe that pursing a case against you is in the best interest of Detective Starsky. He has endured way too much to put him through that hell. Can you imagine the headlines, if the department pressed charges against you? If this thing went to trial? I can: _psychotic cop snaps, abducts partner, holds him hostage in desperate attempt to recreate trauma he endured as a child_." He scoffed disgustedly. "And here's the kicker: they were monogamous lovers! _Christ_ , the media outlets would explode! You'd captivate the country as every detail of this case became inflated fodder, and by the time it was over there would be very little truth left." Leaning forward, he clasped his hands, his dangerous gaze not faltering. "Now, I don't know the truth of what happened. I know what it looks like, but I wasn't there, and despite Blaine's insistence otherwise, the only evidence we have is this." He nodded at the files. "A haunting inclination that there could be a needle hidden in this haystack."

"What he's saying," Dobey said evenly, "is that we all know that what happened to Starsky was horrifying—"

"You don't have enough," Hutch snorted humorlessly. "A few misplaced suspicions aren't enough to justify dirtying the department's reputation because, after all, the media would attack you too, right? I hid my past—something that should have prevented me from becoming a cop in the first place—if I'm labeled a monster with a badge then that makes Bay City PD responsible, too. Negligent, right? For overlooking something you should have found easily."

"Well, your father did hide it very well," Ryan grunted. Pulling the file in front of him, he flipped through the contents, his face contorting with anger. "None of this is under your real name, and there's no mention of a Kenneth Hutchinson in any of the police reports—at least not with regards to a small boy. If it weren't for this file showing up on the Marcus property and Blaine's insistence, we still wouldn't know! Now, I would love to hold you responsible for what happened to Starsky, but I can't. Because even with your secrets, the lies you built your career on, the correlations between what happened to Starsky at the Marcus compound, and what you experienced as a child, it isn't enough. We have no real evidence. No blood, no fingerprints or bodily fluids, nothing tangible linking you to the crime scene. Starsky isn't talking and I don't foresee that he will. I don't know why his loyalty to you is so indestructible, but you should consider yourself lucky that suspicion doesn't justify indictment. That Blaine's gut feeling isn't enough to rationalize jeopardizing Starsky's recovery or dragging this department through the mud."

"Then why am I here?" Hutch demanded, his voice low and gritty. "Why would you call an official inquiry if you don't plan on holding me responsible for something?"

"Hutchinson, this isn't an inquiry."

"Then what is it?" Hutch asked as Dobey and Ryan considered each other for moment, an unspoken agreement lingering between them. "What's going on?"

His father had thought he had potential to become a psychopath—that the horrible things he had endured as a child had shaped him, leaving sharp points and monstrous urges lurking just under the surface—and looking at Dobey and Ryan, Hutch realized they did too. With dread and irritation building in his chest, he finally comprehended what was happening. But the knowledge did little to soothe the pain of the moment, or to calm his frantic guilt-ridden thoughts. Just as the disclosure of his past would have prevented him from a career with the police force, it was ending it. And with his heartbeat pounding in his ears, all Hutch could think was it wasn't enough.

It would never be enough for what had been done.

"This isn't an inquiry," Ryan repeated, pulling an official letter from beneath the worn file. Reaching for a silver pen in the lapel pocket of his suit jacket, he pushed both items across the table. "It's a dismissal."

Xx

"Man, what is with all the racket?" Huggy groused. Leaning against Hutch's doorway, he crossed his arms and watched Starsky purposefully pile the items from Hutch's nightstand on top of a box already overflowing with clothes. "You finally had enough, huh?" he joked. "You're moving him out, kicking his ass to the curb."

Pushing the sleeves of the gray and blue flannel shirt further up his forearms, Starsky shook his head. "Not out, in."

"What?"

"I'm moving him in."

"To your room?" Jetting his thumb toward the hallway, Huggy's brows inclined. "Does your other half know about his impending change in scenery?"

"No."

"Don't you think you should ask him if he wants to share a bedroom again? Get his thoughts on it before going through all this trouble?"

"He doesn't get a choice."

"What brought this on, man? I thought you liked the space—that you needed it right now."

"I—"Reaching for a small framed photograph on the nightstand, Starsky faltered, a lump settling in throat.

Though its presence wasn't new, looking at it was shock. The picture was as haunting as it was comforting; a candid photo taken of the pair by Aunt Rosie last Thanksgiving, placed in a silver frame, and gifted to them for Christmas. He and Hutch looked happy—they had been that day—grinning wildly and eyes shining with mild inebriation, Starsky laid across the couch, his head settled on Hutch's lap as his partner gazed lovingly at him. They had been watching football, nursing a few pre-dinner beers and making offhanded comments about the losing team. But Starsky didn't remember what prompted them to look at each other like that, not with profound love etched on their faces.

"I want it back," Starsky whispered thickly. Tears sprung to his eyes as he voiced a deep longing he hadn't realized he had.

This picture had been them once, a perfect representation of who they were—happy, loving, and contiguous. It hadn't been that long ago but it felt like years had passed since they had looked at each other like that. Though still together, they were a world apart. Separated by fear and grief, bedroom walls and stifling darkness, suffocating on all the uncertainty and the things they still didn't know how to talk about.

"I've lost so much, Hug," he continued brokenly. "I can't lose him too. I need to know where he is. He's been so far away for so long, all I want is for him to be close to me. For him to be _here_ with me."

"Okay," Huggy soothed. Stepping into the room he gripped Starsky's arms and was unsurprised when his crying friend pulled him into a fierce hug. "It's okay. I get it," he added, rubbing Starsky's back. "If you want to move Hutch closer to you then that's what we'll do."

Xx

"What happened?" Huntley asked quietly, his face contorting with worry as he sprung from the chair outside of the boardroom.

Though he had entered with Dobey, Hutch had emerged from the room alone, his face set in an alarming mixture of devastation and shock. Not trusting his voice, he shrugged; pressing a copy of the signed document into Huntley's hands, he continued walking numbly toward the elevator.

"They canned you," Huntley said softly, a note of awe to his tone, as he followed Hutch down the hallway. "Shit, pal, I'm sorry."

"Doesn't matter," Hutch whispered dully.

But watching Hutch prop his forearm against the wall next to the closed elevator doors, Huntley knew it did matter. It mattered more than anything ever had—or would.

"It's okay. Everything is going to be okay."

"No, it's not." Hutch hung his head. "It can't be."

"Sure it is." Glancing covertly around the empty hallway, Huntley lowered his voice, "This is good news. They could have hung you out to dry instead they," he scanned the letter, "dismissed you with a _nondisclosure agreement_?" He gaped at Hutch. "Boy, Dobey may have fired you, but he's saving your ass."

"They're sealing the Marcus files."

Pressing his hands to his face, Hutch entered the empty elevator as the doors finally crawled open. Moving to the back of it, he leaned heavily against the wall and groaned, a desperate full-bodied sound that left his shoulders sinking and his gaze on the floor.

"Well, that's good news, right?" Huntley said, pressing the button for the parking garage. "That'll force Blaine to let it go. And your dismissal will appease him."

"It's not enough."

"Don't!" Huntley warned. "Don't even start with that bull-shit right now, okay? I know what you're thinking and it isn't true."

"It is."

"It's not."

"What was the point of it, Luke? What was the point of hiding it all these years, of building a life I knew I was never meant to have, that I would never be able sustain? What was the point of loving Starsky? All I do is hurt people. I should have died in that bunker when I was kid. At least that way Starsky would still be whole. At least then he wouldn't have to live with the scars of my _fucking_ mistakes."

"That's your father talking," Huntley said, his soft voice matter-of-fact.

"My father?" Hutch tearfully scoffed. "Let me tell you something about my father, "he lifted a furious index finger, "he was right about me."

"He was wrong."

"He was right. And Dobey and Ryan, they're right to fire me. You can't have someone like me running around. God only knows what I'll do—what I've already done."

"You didn't do anything wrong."

"But I _did_." Voice tightening, tears spilled from Hutch's eyes as old accusations came rushing back. "What happened to me was my fault—just like what happened to Starsky is my fault— I didn't listen. I didn't _behave_."

"You didn't know."

"I knew my parents were in the city and that I wasn't supposed to leave the house. But when Kenneth came, I left. I went with him."

"He was an adult, pal. You trusted him; you had no way of knowing what he was going to do."

"But I should have!" Hutch shouted. "What happened to me is like a disease. It runs in my family; it—it's in my blood. There is an anger inside of me, a _darkness_ that _lives_ inside of me. Marcus saw it right away, and that voice—that _thing_ —it wanted it. That's why Marcus chose Starsky. That's why he allowed everything to happen. They wanted to make sure I knew who I really was—"

"Hey!" Gripping the lapels of Hutch's shirt, Huntley shook him slightly, jarring him out of his panic and assessing him warily. "What happened then has got nothing to do with what happened to Starsky. There was _no_ voice," he tilted his head, " _Marcus_ did this to Starsky, not you. There's no disease, nothing hiding inside of you waiting to make you like your uncle."

"But—"

"But nothing. What happened to you was terrible, and your dad didn't handle it right. All he did was hold you responsible for someone else's terrible mistakes. You were a _victim_ , but he treated you like you were the perpetrator. I'm gonna tell you now what your father should have told you then: your uncle is sick. But his mistakes, his choices, have nothing to do with you. They don't _reflect_ on you. You didn't do this; you didn't ask for what happened when you were a kid and you didn't invite this upon Starsky."

"I should have stopped him," Hutch whispered, no longer sure if he was speaking about what happened to him or his partner. "I should have been able to stop it."

"You were seven years-old, Hutch. You were a little boy. What were you going to do?"

Biting his lip, Hutch shook his head. There was nothing he could have done—he knew that—but nothing could stop the aching shame burrowed deep in his heart. Nothing could ease the truth of what had happened or help Starsky overcome the terrible things he'd endured. Being dismissed from his position at Bay City PD changed everything—and nothing. Marcus had died and Starsky had lived, but Hutch didn't know how he was going to survive—how he was going to live with the guilt and grief of what he had done.

"Pal," Huntley continued softly. ""The last few months have been hell—I _know_ that—and you just got your career torn away. But don't go losing your shit now, throwing in the towel, giving into your guilt, and _giving up_. You need to support your partner. You need to be able to do for him what your father was never able to do for you. Starsky is a mess; he needs you to guide him through this, to go home and put on a good face and be okay with what just happened in there. He needs you to be strong—even if you don't feel like you are."

Closing his eyes, Hutch knew Huntley was right, but he was wrong too. If there was a darkness running through his veins then there was a weakness too, a confounding inability to deal with the pain of what had been done. His father had coped with what had happened to Hutch by being angry, judgmental, and unkind, and though Hutch knew he would never treat Starsky so callously, his own coping mechanism still remained. Echoing in his head, it pounded in time with the beat of his heart, prompting him to run.

"I have to get out of here," Hutch growled as the elevator doors groaned open. Wiping his hand over his face, he pulled himself from Huntley's grasp, clearing his throat as he stepped out of the lift and disappeared into the parking garage.

"I want a phone call later!" Huntley shouted, though he knew his request would be ignored.

Xx

 _"_ _Where is he?"_ a nervous voice echoed in Starsky's head as he looked around the confines of his—now, their—bedroom.

There hadn't been much to move but with Huggy's help, he had been able to transfer all of Hutch's belongings quickly, gracefully intermixing them with his own. The closest looked dangerously close to what it once had; rows of clothes hung neatly over twin tri-dressers containing a mixture of apparel that was either impossible to hang or easier not to. The small desk had been moved out and into Hutch's old room to make the bedroom less claustrophobic and allow ample room for the addition of Hutch's nightstand on the other side of the bed.

During the past few months, Starsky had spent hours in this bedroom, hiding behind deadbolts and filling the room with music and blaring television shows. And even though he had sought respite in this this place, the room had never felt right. Foreign and uninviting, it had never felt quite like home. But, now, standing at the foot of the bed, he was taken aback by how much the room had changed. How reassuring and right it felt to see hints of his partner scattered around.

 _"_ _He should have been back by now,"_ the voice continued. _"Or at least called."_

Inhaling a startled breath, Starsky's hand moved to pick at the bandage covering his face. The voice was right, Hutch should have been back, but he was trying not to focus on that. Morning had come and gone hours ago, and overdue at The Pits, so had Huggy. Though he hadn't wanted to leave Starsky alone, after failing to convince him to join him at the bar, Huggy had. But he had left a short lists of demands behind: don't go anywhere without telling me and text me every half-hour, were the only two Starsky remembered offhand.

 _"_ _That meeting didn't take this long, and if they had decided to hold him you would have known. Huntley would have called you."_

Eyeing the bedroom window, Starsky's stomach churned with nervousness. It would be dark soon, and he wanted Hutch to come home. He needed to be next to him when the sun went down and the darkness crept in. Why hadn't Hutch come back, and why didn't he know where he was? Labored breaths escaping his mouth, he felt lightheaded, overcome by the frantic notion that something was terribly wrong.

 _"_ _He isn't coming back."_

"He'll come back," Starsky whispered. He had to say something to contend with the voice—even if he was arguing with himself.

 _"_ _Maybe he'll come back as someone else."_

Starsky's picking intensified at the thought. Neatly trimmed fingernails, scratched and pulled the bandage at a ferocious speed; the frantic movement was the only way he knew to cope with the panic clenching his heart. He gasped, cringing, as his nail tore through the bandage, pinching and tearing skin.

"Shit," he growled. Pulling his hand back, he stared wide-eyed at the speckle of blood staining his fingertip. "Shit," he repeated, almost absently as he rubbed his wet finger against his thumb. The blood was warm and sticky as it struggled to absorb into his skin, leaving nothing but a dry stain behind—the smallest hint of what had been done that made his heart pound frantically in his chest.

 _"_ _He said he was done being afraid but you should be terrified."_

Xx

Walking around the desolate land of the Marcus Compound, Hutch found himself taken aback by how much it had changed. The landscape was dry and desolate; the industrial buildings and trees he had noted the day he and Starsky had first come to the property were gone, as was the house. Only the foundation and the cracking chimney of the fireplace was left behind, standing tall, like a beacon among piles of ashes and crumbling remains of skeletal wood. Shaking his head, he kicked his foot through some of the debris, covering his mouth and nose with his sleeve as it scattered into a cloud of noxious dust. He didn't know why he had come here; what had made him want to see the place again.

Escaping Metro, he had been intent on following Huntley's orders. He was going to return home, to feign bravery and acceptance as he relayed the details of his dismissal from the police department to his fearful partner. But struggling with guilt and grief, he found he didn't have the courage to face Starsky—not yet—and he settled for driving absently around the city.

He hadn't meant to come to the Marcus property. He hadn't even realized that was where he was headed until he was halfway down the rugged dirt road. Coming to like waking from a dream, he had looked at the winding road with wide-eyes, wanting so badly to turn around. But something deep inside of him prevented that from happening. A whisper of the truth of what he would find waiting for him in Bay City and at home. A stifling sense of failure, overwhelming grief, and panic that wouldn't be ignored.

Everything that Marcus had done was his fault; he was responsible for it all.

Pulling his arm back, he coughed and wiped at his burning eyes. It didn't make any sense that something could have been found in wreckage of the home. Not the frame of a badly burned car, not a steel box containing the files he had destroyed months before. It didn't make sense and he didn't understand—he didn't want to understand.

How had he entered the house, intent on saving Starsky, and ended up in a bunker several yards away?

Shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, Hutch sighed, helpless to answer questions that didn't matter now. It was over; the unspoiled illusion of him Starsky had believed him to be, his career, and Marcus's life had all come to an abrupt end.

The wind blew suddenly, sending thin clouds of ashes and dust to float over the ground, and Hutch turned away from the house, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, struggling to summon what little courage he left to go home to Starsky.

"I'm not afraid," he whispered, though he was.

How was he going to face his skittish partner and deal with the devastation his words would bring? He had told Starsky they would return to work together but now his words were nothing more than a broken promise; another lie he had carefully told as he had known months ago, after Starsky had been found and he had been suspended, he was never going back.

Breathing deeply, Hutch opened his eyes. The sun was quickly dipping in the horizon, reminding him that it was time to go home. It would be dark soon, and he wouldn't dare leave Starsky to contend with the night alone. Huggy had left hours ago, notifying him via a text message Hutch hadn't replied to. Astonishingly, Starsky hadn't tried to contact him during his absence—a brave attempt to contend with his lingering apprehension alone. A step in the right direction for Starsky that it only served to intensify Hutch's guilt.

Striding toward his vehicle, his absentminded gaze traveled around the distant landscape, looking for something and nothing at the same time. There was movement in the distance, quick moving tumbleweeds being blown haphazardly by the wind, followed by a slamming noise, an abrasive pounding of a steel door closing. Hesitating in place, he looked around, heartbeat quickening as the wind howled and he found no explanation for the noise.

As though moving by their own volition, his feet moved rapidly, making long strides to join the tumbleweeds in the distance. He didn't think about what he was doing—he didn't think at all. Eyes frozen on the closed door bunker door, Hutch bent down and clasped the handle. The steel felt cold in the palm of his hand as he grunted, pulling the door open, then allowing it to fold over its hinges and fall to the ground with a reverberating thud.

 _"_ _You came,"_ the wind hissed, a sound so soft it went unnoticed as Hutch crawled into the bunker's dark depths.

Descending into the darkness, the air was thick and rotten, and he choked on the stifling smell of rusty blood and death. Eyes watering, he pulled his iPhone out of his pocket, activating the flashlight and holding in front of him, looking for something that could justify such a smell—a dead animal or worse. Surrounded by the frigid coldness of crumbling walls, he found scattered pools of dried blood on floor—only the smallest hint of the terrible things that had taken place—but nothing else.

 _"_ _You came."_

Brow furrowing, Hutch felt a gust of wind tickle his ears. Clearing his throat, he looked around swiftly, seeing nothing but darkness beyond the flashlight's beam. He shouldn't be down there—he knew that—but there was a peacefulness to the room, an all-encompassing calmness that wouldn't ignored. Above land he had felt nervous, broken and afraid, but down here he was whole—unaffected by his pain and guilt, unburdened by the fear of what the future may hold. He was overcome by happiness as he realized that John Blaine was wrong: this bunker was nothing like the one he had been kept in a child.

Striding contently from one end of the room to the other, his footsteps echoed as his eyes darted around. He didn't know what he was looking for or why he was certain there was something silently waiting in darkness, begging to be found.

 _"_ _You came,"_ a gritty inhuman voice hissed from behind him.

Abruptly stopping, Hutch turned in place, squinting as he assessed the darkest corner of the room. It was empty, but eyes shining with delight, his lips curled in to a wide smile. "I see you."

END PART ONE


	33. PART TWO

**The Things We Lost in the Fire: Part Two:**

* * *

Just before our love got lost you said: _I am as constant as a northern star._ And I said: _Constantly in the darkness. Where's that at?"_

-Joni Mitchell

In the end, there is only darkness. Sometimes we find others in that darkness, and sometimes we lose them there again.

-Stephen King

* * *

 **Eighteen Months Later:**

The uniform officer's feet moved quickly, pounding against the broken pavement and sending vibrations up his legs as he took one step after another. His gun belt shifted on his waist, its secured items weighing him down as he quickened his pace, chasing the hoodie clad teenager down the abandoned street. He didn't pay any heed to his surroundings—something that, in this moment, he was thankful for— nor did he allow his mind to wander from his immediate goal: catching up to the fleeting perpetrator.

"Come on, kid!" the officer said breathlessly as the teenager zigzagged across the street and into an empty alleyway.

"Keep up, old man!" the teen laughed, the stained soles of his sneakers slamming against packed dirt as he jumped effortlessly over the jagged potholes and rocks in the road.

"Are you fucking serious?" the officer exclaimed, the words leaving his chest in an exasperated huff. He may have been in shape but he was vastly unprepared for exerting himself in such a way, chasing a kid in his mid-teens down an empty, run-down stretch of the warehouse district. An annoyingly, quick kid who, from the officer's point-of-view, should be spending more time logging hours for a high school track team and less coordinating covert drug deals.

"You ready to pack it in?" the teen taunted, showing no signs of slowing down—or giving up and allowing himself to be apprehended.

Feeling a fierce rush of adrenaline, the officer picked up speed, his arms swinging in the air as beads of sweat trailed from his hairline and a smile danced on his lips. There were people who thought he shouldn't be able to do this—that he didn't have what it took to uphold the law, that he shouldn't be allowed to possess a badge or a gun, and that he wasn't strong enough to protect himself or anyone else—but they were wrong.

In time, he would prove them all wrong—himself included—but not today.

Coming upon a dark abandon building, the officer fought irrepressible panic; his heart dropping, he watched the teenager disappear through the crumbling doorway.

" _Shit_!" the officer swore.

Skidding to an abrupt stop, his knees wobbled under his weight, nearly sending him tumbling to the ground, as he peered at the building with wide, fear filled eyes. Taking in the crumbling cement walls and the threatening dank darkness contained in its depths, he almost dissolved into furious tears.

Why did the kid have to disappear into darkness—the only place he couldn't follow?

"You're on the job," he whispered firmly, his body quaking beneath a stifling combination of warm adrenaline and cold terror, reciting the careful well used assertion he often repeated throughout the day. The strength of the words and his strong masculine tone both meant to ground him when things got too rough. When his surroundings suddenly seemed too reminiscent of where he had once been. "You're on _the job_."

"One-Adam-Eight, Code One," John Blaine's crisp voice crackled out of the black ROVER radio clipped to the officer's gun belt.

Ignoring his superior's instruction, the officer inhaled heartily, clasping his hands in white knuckled fists as he paced in front of the entry to the building. "Shit… Shit… _Shit_!"

"One-Adam-Eight responding," a deep voice replied over the radio.

"Whitley," Blaine said, acknowledging the other voice. "Where's your partner?"

"Hell of a footrace, sir," Whitley said. "Perps scattered, and so did we."

"Apprehend anyone?"

"Negative."

"What about your partner?"

"Still haven't heard from him."

Blaine sighed, a full-bodied breath laced with disappointed exasperation that cracked through the radio and made the officer standing in front of the crumbling building flinch. "One-Adam-Eight, Code One," Blaine repeated forcefully. "That means you, Starsky. You've been MIA for almost an hour, answer your _fucking_ radio."

Taking one last look at the building, Starsky forced a deep inhale, then exhaling he cleared his throat, and turned around. He may have lost his perp but neither Blaine nor his partner needed to know why. "Here," he said, pinching the button on the spiral-wired microphone clipped to the shoulder loop of his uniform.

"Good," Blaine said. "You okay?"

"Doing just fine," Starsky scoffed, ignoring his fear and forcing a strength he didn't quite feel.

"You apprehend anybody?"

"That's a negative."

"Where are you?" Whitley asked.

"Too far away from where I was," Starsky muttered.

"Whitley," Blaine said authoritatively. "Pull Starsky's GPS location, pick him up, and then return to the station."

"That's not necessary," Starsky growled.

"Starsky—"

"I'll walk," Starsky said stubbornly, kicking his feet angrily at the scattered rocks as he made his way back down the abandoned alley.

Flipping off the radio, he smoothed his hands over the short stubble covering his cheeks— purposeful growth, meant to cover or, at least, deter attention away from the white liner scar on his cheek—and through his close-cropped hair.

"Damn it," he breathed. It wasn't supposed to be like this; this wasn't the triumphant return to the police force he had wanted—it wasn't how he imagined it would be.

It had taken nearly two years—a lot of work—but when Starsky had finally been given the green light from Doctor Evans to return to work, his superiors had looked at him as though he was glass figure, passing his reinstatement request from one department to the another as though he might shatter at the first sight of bloody crime scene. Even Dobey had passed him over, a rejection that had stung more than Starsky wanted to admit—or ever would. But too much time had gone by, or so he had been told, and with Hutch's dismissal, roles had shifted, positions had been filled, and, surely, Starsky could understand how in a city this size with an eternally increasing crime rate, how his coveted spot was no longer available.

He understood, alright. He was damaged goods.

If the nature of the injuries he sustained at the Marcus Compound wasn't enough to make his superiors nervous, than the knowledge of his dubious mental issues post-Marcus were. He was fine, now, by-the-way. No, he wasn't suffering from trauma-induced schizophrenia—thanks Doctor Evans for disclosing that incriminating concern to Chief Ryan—just some post-traumatic stress, and, no, he did not hear voices—at least not anymore.

Weeks had gone by, with his future hanging in the balance of a never-ending carousel of interdepartmental applications, reviews, and eventual rejections. But just when Starsky was ready to give up hope, John Blaine had come through.

"I know it's not what you want, buddy," Blaine had advised. "And it sure as shit isn't what you're used to. But it'll get your foot back in the door, show those bastards you can still do this, that you still got that fire in you to do the job."

While Starsky wasn't thrilled about picking up his career in the same place it had begun—as one of Blaine's uniformed blue boys—, he was grateful for the opportunity. It filled his days, got him out of the house, and gave him something to do. He may have been back at the bottom but he was certain he could climb his way back up, and with his experience, it was only a matter of time before his superior promoted him Senior Lead Officer and who knew where he would end up after that? Though he had dreams of returning to the Zebra unit, under Dobey, there were other departments he could try. Units like vice, narcotics, or even SWAT would all be easy transitions now that he was no longer bound to his partnership with Hutch.

However, returning to work Starsky had felt immediately off-balance, in a constant loop of feigning assurance, bravery, and strength he was unsure he would ever feel again. He told himself that he wanted to be there—that he had to go back—to prove to the people around him that he still had it in him; to prove to himself that he was fine—something that even he struggled to believe some days. Still, it was strange walking the halls of metro without Hutch, and wearing a uniform and being partnered with someone else had been difficult adjustments—to say the least. Some changes were easier to contend with than others, and the few post-Marcus issues he still struggled with were impossible to ignore.

His fear of the dark remained, rearing its ugly head at the most inopportune times. Moments like hesitating in front of a dark building had become a fixture in his life—quiet flashes of intense fear he struggled to disguise, threatening to dissolve everything he had worked so hard to regain— along with the bright nightlight placed prominently in his bedroom and the sporadic violent nightmares that plagued him, fleeting confused images of what had happened and what, hopefully, never would.

"You turned off your radio," Officer Whitley said matter-of-factly, his hands resting atop the squad car they shared, as Starsky finally approached the vehicle.

"Yep."

"You need to stop doing that. Blaine hates it, and so do I." Whitley shook his head. "Damn it, Starsky; there was no reason for us to be chasing those kids. You took off after them just for the hell of it."

"They were holding."

"You don't know that."

"I know."

"Well, since you know, then I guess I'll let you explain it to Blaine. I'm sure you didn't pick up on it over the radio, but he's pissed. He gave me an earful after you turned your radio off and went dark."

"You let me handle Blaine," Starsky grunted, sinking heavily into the car with an exhausted sigh. His earlier exertion and the trek back left his feet throbbing and his heart aching for a combination of things he could never have back. The blue Adidas shoes he had favored when he had been on Zebra Detail and Hutch. Oh, God—on days like today—did he miss Hutch.

"Fine," Whitley chuckled. "Have it your way. But don't say I didn't warn you when he calls you in for a meeting, shuts the door, and lets you have it. You've been walking a line with him for a while, and I think you finally pushed him over the edge."

Xx

"What happened?" His ankle hooked over his knee, Blaine leaned back in his office chair, assessing Starsky carefully as he rested his entwined fingers on his lap.

"Nothing," Starsky snorted, looking disinterestedly around the walls of Blaine's small office. Much to his disappointment, and Whitley's chagrin, their superior had done exactly what his partner had warned he would. Not long after Starsky had sauntered into the locker room, Blaine had found him there, his face set with displeasure as he nodded mutely, jetting his thumb toward the door.

It wasn't the first time Blaine had found it necessary to reprimand Starsky, and it wouldn't be the last. Starsky position with Bay City PD and Hutch's glaring absence weren't the only things that had changed. A tension had settled between Starsky and Blaine, a silent strain that provoked anger and threatened to suffocate Starsky each passing day.

"Nothing," Blaine sighed in exasperation. "That's not what Whitley said."

"Why can't you just ignore Whitley?"

"I wish I could! I don't understand it, David. One second you're sitting at street corner with your partner, patrolling _your_ district, the area you _belong_ in, and the next you're chasing some small-change suspected dope dealer six miles away from where you left Whitley behind."

"You pulled my location?"

"You went dark for over an hour, you're damn right I pulled your location. I was worried, and so was Whitley; you had no reason to pursue that kid. I know you're used to doing things your own way, pushing limits, breaking rules, taking a gamble and having it pay off. But you can't pull that shit here, not on my team and certainly not on my watch."

"That kid was criminal. I was just doing my job."

"You didn't have any proof that he was carrying," Blaine countered. "And Whitley said he didn't see anything that would lead him to believe that those kids were doing anything worth spending time on."

"Then why did they run?"

"I don't know," Blaine snorted humorously. "Weird isn't it? How groups of teenagers tend to disperse and flee as soon as uniform cops start drawing attention to them." Ankle sliding off his leg, he dropped it heavily to the floor, leaning forward to clasp his hands. "David," he added, voice gentle but authoritative. "I know this is an adjustment, okay? I know working special detail under Dobey is a lot different than being a uniform police officer. You had a freedom under him that you will never have under me. But with everything you've been through, you're already toeing the line with the boys upstairs, why are you trying so hard to make things more difficult for yourself?"

"What am I supposed to do? Pretend like I haven't been a cop for years, that I don't how to profile people or read their body language? I can't sit on my ass doing nothing until I get told where to go. And I can't ignore when I _know_ a kid is holding."

"Legally you have to! Do you have any idea what could happen if that kid tells his parents about your pursuit and they go to the news outlets, or if they file an official complaint? What kind of a nightmare that would be for you, or me?"

"He's not going to _complain_." Starsky frowned, the teen's taunting echoing through his head. "He was enjoying it."

"He _enjoyed_ it? _Jesus Christ_ , are you even listening to yourself, right now? This isn't the first time you and I have had discussions like this. I got to tell you, bud, I'm losing patience with your attitude. You want to be respected, you want your past experience to matter, and you want to work your way up to Zebra again, and I think that's great. I think you're capable of putting the work in, and you sure as shit deserve to be who you once were. But you are never going to get there if you don't cut the rookie bull-shit and start playing by the rules. I brought you back because I thought I knew what you were made of. But I got to say, after watching you flounder for the last couple of months, I'm not so sure."

Starsky snorted as Blaine's words hit a nerve deep inside of him, a small cluster of uncertainty he struggled to ignore. Could he do this? Was he really capable of being who he once was?

"You are a better cop than your behavior would lead people believe," Blaine continued. "I know that, and, eventually, you'll remember that too. I know losing Hutch was blow but—"

"No!" Starsky shouted, his eyes flickering with rage. Leaning forward, he pointed a furious index finger in Blaine's direction as the ugly topic lingered between them, threatening to dissolve their conversation into a violent, pain-fueled argument. "You don't get to talk to me about him, not after everything that's happened, not after what _you_ did."

"Hutch made his own decisions; it was only a matter of time before things went south for him." Blaine shook his head sadly. "Look, I don't want to talk about Hutch. This meeting isn't about him, it's about you. Chasing that kid was unethical and unwarranted, the forth such pursuit you have engaged in since your return." Blaine evaluated him seriously, his voice softening to a chastising, paternal whisper, "You do it again and I'll have no choice but to write you up, and that's going put a hell of a kink in your plans."

"Fine," Starsky growled. "Are we done here?"

"Yes. Go home."

"John," Starsky protested, his eyes focusing on the clock hanging in the corner. It was barely past noon, much too early to leave. "I'm not done for another—"

"Go." Blaine pointed at the door. "Take the weekend and think about what you're trying to accomplish here. We'll talk again on Monday."

Xx

Starsky didn't go home. His meeting with Blaine left him unsettled and angry; he didn't want to abide by his superior's instruction—no matter how well intentioned it was—nor did he feel like returning to Venice Place only to be surrounded by the inevitable emptiness of the apartment. Lucky would be excited to see him, of course, as Starsky's return home promised another run around the city or, at least, a long walk around the neighborhood.

Running had never been Starsky's idea of a good time, his excursions with Lucky had begun as a practice to soothe the dog's endless energy. But soon Hutch's preferred form of stress-relief had become Starsky's own. It was easy not to think about things better left alone when he was focused on the slack in the dog's leash and the miles of pavement separating them from where they had begun.

"Man, it's weird seeing you in uniform again," Huggy said, assessing Starsky from the opposite side of the bar at The Pits. "It's a total blast from the past. When was the last time you dressed like this? Five, six years ago?"

"Yesterday," Starsky grunted cynically. "I've been back for two months, it's hardly the first time you've seen me looking official."

"Yeah, well." Huggy shrugged. "It's still a surprise." Grabbing Starsky's cap, he placed on his head with a proud smirk. "You know, maybe I'll become a cop, join Blaine's crew, then you and me can be partners. What do you think?"

"Pipe dream, Hug." Starsky knocked the cap off of Huggy's head. "You're way too shady to be a cop."

"Ouch."

"Sad but true," Starsky laughed.

Grinning, Huggy watched Starsky sip his beer, his eyes catching on a glint of light being refracted off the silver band on the index finger of his friend's left hand.

"Well," Huggy said lightheartedly. "Do you want to know what is equally as weird as seeing you in uniform?"

"What?"

"Looking at this," Huggy said, tapping the ring on Starsky's finger.

"Yeah." Abandoning his beer on the bar, Starsky stared at the ring—his wedding ring—grasping it in-between the thumb and index finger of his opposite hand, he tugged it up and down. "I suppose I'm still getting used that myself." Face contorting with apprehension, Starsky stared at his childhood best friend. "It isn't weird in a bad way, right?" he asked softly. "I mean, it's just weird because it's still new."

"It's weird in a good way," Huggy assured. "Besides, you're happy, aren't you? After everything, I think that's the least you deserve."

Smoothing his fingers over the ring, Starsky pursed his lips, unsure how to tackle what should have been an easy answer to a simple question. He wasn't happy and he wasn't sad, rather eternally stuck somewhere between indifference and numbness—yet another thing that would improve in time, or so he was told. Joy was fleeting but anger was never far away; quick, furious, and violent, it promised to challenge the most important relationship he'd ever had.

"Oh, God!" Huggy groaned. "You've only been married for three months, don't tell me there's trouble in paradise already. I do not want to hear that putting a ring on your finger, making things legal and official has filled you with regret and a need to jump ship."

"It's not that."

"Then what is it?"

"My whole life is different," Starsky whispered, the softness of his tone allowing a rare glimpse of the uncertainty and pain still lurking under the surface.

Crossing his arms, he ran his fingers over the twin chevron stripes lining the sleeves of his uniform, closing his eyes as the softness of the patches only highlighted how much things had changed. His uniform was uncomfortable, his shoes more so, and despite the comfort of always having the ring on his left hand—a tangible reminder that he was never alone—returning to work prominently displaying proof of the marriage had been difficult, much more challenging than being partnered with Hutch, simultaneously personally and professionally, had ever been. Starsky was no longer a closeted gay cop but an openly married man.

"Well," Huggy said. Planting his elbows on the bar, he leaned over. "It was always going to a change from what you knew, right? Everything seems different because it is different. You're different; your marital status is different; the job is different—"

"I got sent home from work today," Starsky whispered, the admission making his heart sink. "That never would have happened under Dobey."

"Dobey sent Hutch home," Huggy said, "just before things fell apart between you two." Gripping his beer glass tightly, Starsky cringed, and Huggy's face fell with regret. "Sorry," he whispered. "Bad example."

"Blaine told me to take the weekend. Like that's going to make everything so much better. Like it's going to make me magically want to do things his way and I'm going to be cheerful the next time he orders me around like a rookie."

"Starsky, you knew what you were getting into when you signed up to be a part of his team. You knew it was going to be a few steps back, that it was going to require some adjustments, don't act like you didn't."

"But I didn't know it was going to be this hard!" Starsky exclaimed, his eyes pleading for Huggy to understand—for someone to understand the stifling frustration he couldn't began to explain. "I thought I could do it," he added, the soft words barely audible. "I thought I could be okay with all of it."

He was going backwards, slipping into some alternate-reality of his life that he had never wanted—or planned. He felt different. Shattered, then poorly pieced together, struggling to maintain his sanity and footing in a career that no longer seemed to fit him. His peers, the men surrounding him on Blaine's team, were younger than he was, too green and too eager, and Starsky felt unprotected and displaced returning to work alone.

Hutch had been dismissed, the Marcus files sealed but neither event was enough to calm the swirling rumors traveling around Metro. Starsky struggled to ignore the whispers of the officers around him, low narrations of the scandalous trauma he had endured at the Marcus compound and theories of why Hutch had been dismissed. The stories echoed more truth than Starsky wanted to admit, but he dismissed them as quickly as they reached his ears. He had enough things to worry about. Like how he was supposed to be strong and contend with the uncertainty and danger of patrolling the streets with Hutch absent and Whitley at his side, or how he was supposed to accept being demoted from Special Detail to a Uniform Officer, doing nothing more than reacting to the daily events unfolding around him, not being allowed to work time consuming cases or being allotted the flexibility he once had.

"Starsky, you can do this," Huggy said, voice soft and knowing. "Things are different because you're different. After everything you went through—everything you lost—how the hell can you expect yourself to be the same?"

"I don't need to be the same; I just need it to be easier than it is now."

"You want it to be easier," Huggy repeated. Grasping Starsky's near empty glass, he drained it in a large gulp. "Then stop killing time here. Go home, admit you were given the weekend off to think about your bad behavior, and talk your worries out with your other half. Starsky, you've come a long way, but be patient with yourself. It's still going to take time for things to feel right again."

TBC


	34. Chapter Thirty-Four

Returning to Venice Place, Starsky found the apartment warm and inviting but quiet—despite the prompt greeting from Lucky. The dog's tail wagged exuberantly as he nuzzled Starsky's legs and placed a few purposeful lick's on the top of his owner's hands. While he was aching for a long hot shower and a short nap to calm his lingering discontent, Starsky smiled and gave into the Dalmatian's chirping barks. A sharp but quiet request they leave the apartment and enjoy the early afternoon sun.

"Okay, kid," Starsky said playfully. "We're going."

Abandoning his police uniform in a pile on the bedroom floor, he exchanged the stifling material for a loose fitting pair of shorts, before pulling an Oakland A's t-shirt over his head and grabbing his tennis shoes from the hallway. A favorite of Hutch's, the shirt was well-worn—with a faded logo and fabric thinning with age, it was filled with tiny sporadic holes that had begun to pop up around the collar and bottom hem—but the shoes were newer—blue and white tri-striped Adidas Sambas; the closest thing he could find to replace the beloved shoes that had been lost.

Exiting the apartment, Starsky squinted his eyes against the sun and allowed Lucky to tug excitedly on leash, pulling him down the sidewalk and away from the pain of the memory threatening to engulf him.

Hutch had left.

Immediately following his dismissal from Bay City PD he had vanished, abandoning Starsky with the haunting voice echoing in his head and vivid night-terrors—violent, horrifying images of Hutch and the darkness too terrifying to recall. Captive to full bodied dread, Starsky had unraveled, becoming so frantic and panicked that the people around him thought he had finally lost touch what little sanity had left. He waited tortuously for either Hutch to return or word of what had happened to him. The authorities had been notified, a missing person's report filed but there were no clues hinting at where Hutch had gone; he had disappeared without a trace.

Days had gone by—each moment seeming longer than the last, ticking by in an agonizingly slow fashion— transforming into weeks before Hutch finally reappeared. Standing illuminated by the streetlights on the sidewalk in front of Venice Place he looked as though he had been lost in backwoods. His clothes were torn and stained, encrusted with an array of dirt, grass, and freckled with crimson splatters; dried blood matted his hairline and deep scratches lined his forearms, but his eyes were clear, sparkling with a peaceful acceptance Starsky was sure he hadn't seen before.

"Where the fuck have you been?!" Starsky yelled, frantic tears spilling down his cheeks.

"Hi, baby," Hutch whispered, his voice low and gritty from either endless screaming or prolonged silence.

"Do you have any idea how many people are looking for you? How crazy I've been not knowing where you went?"

Hutch didn't answer, instead he pulled his hysterical partner into a tight hug. The smell of him, made Starsky's stomach churn, an all too familiar rotten stench of violent death and rusty blood.

"It's okay," Hutch said numbly as Starsky dissolved into deep-chested sobs. "It's all going to be okay now, you'll see."

But, deep inside his heart, Starsky knew it wouldn't be—it couldn't be. Too much had happened to hope for that now.

Hutch never told him why he had disappeared—where he had been or what had been done—but after that day, the taunting voice in Starsky's head calmed. He didn't hear it again.

Feeling a surge of anxiety, Starsky quickened his pace, and panting wildly, Lucky complied. He didn't want to think about that day, the choices he and Hutch had made after, or how difficult and wrong everything seemed now. Huggy had told him to give it time but what his best friend didn't know is that he already had, and time had done nothing to ease the pain of what had been done.

Sprinting down the sidewalk, Starsky reminded himself not to look back because he wasn't yet brave enough to look at what he knew he would see.

Xx

The spray of the shower beat down on him, leaving his skin red and angry, feeling aflame under the scalding water. Starsky grimaced, stifling the urge to scream or whimper, to punch the shower wall or curl up on the floor and cry. Neither the early beer at Huggy's nor the run with Lucky had done much to calm his building tension. Clenching his stomach muscles, it left him nauseated and exhausted. He was overcome, as he often was, by intense, fierce feelings that demanded to be heard, respected, and then hidden beneath a crust of fury.

Tucking his chin, he leaned his body forward, pressing his forearms and the top of his head to the slick shower wall. Clouds of steam puffed around him, thickening the air and leaving him struggling for breath as the stinging water washed over shoulders and trailed down his back, leaving his skin angry, puckered, and distressed.

So much time had passed since Simon Marcus's death. The voice had left and Hutch had returned but an acute sense of wrongness had sunk in, threatening to settle deep within Starsky's soul and awakening dark insatiable emotions. It wasn't the anxiety, panic, or dread he had experienced before. These feelings were more definable, tangible, and certain. Calculated and rational, they carefully whispered the one cold truth he could never deny: things were not okay, nor would they ever be okay again.

Of course, Uncle Al had known that months ago, when Starsky had finally summoned the courage to advise his aunt and uncle of his impending return to Bay City PD. Al and Rosie had looked at each other, both silently devastated by the words Starsky couldn't keep from tumbling from his mouth.

"John has offered me a spot on his team," he had said, his voice sounding remarkably small, as though he was a child asking for permission to do something he knew wouldn't be allowed. "And I've decided to take it."

"Oh, David," Rosie sighed regretfully. Brows furrowing, she stared at her hands sitting limping in her lap. "Why?" she asked moments later, tears tugging at her voice.

"Because I have to," Starsky whispered.

"No, you don't," Al said, his forehead wrinkling beneath the worry he was struggling to keep from his tone. "I know you wanted to go back to work, that it's been the big goal you've been striving for all along, but do you really think you ought to be doing this?"

"I'm ready," Starsky lied softly, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Kiddo." Al frowned, his eyes sparkling with disbelief. "There was reason all those other departments passed you over, remember? A damn good one. Don't tell me that you've forgotten—"

"What your uncle is trying to say is that we're still worried," Rosie interjected. "David, you have been through so much. Why are you in such a rush to go back to work? I know you don't need the money. You should be focusing on goals that are going to further your progress not unravel it. More counseling would be a good step, something that would give you structure and allow you to build on the work you and Doctor Evans have—"

"No," Starsky said obstinately. He didn't need more time to think about what had happened—or therapy. Evans had finally cut him loose and the last thing he intended to do was start over with someone else. He was done with talk; he needed action. "I'm _doing_ this."

"Well, I don't like it," Al growled, the terse tone sounding foreign leaving his lips. "You're only starting to get your life back on track. _Fuck_ John Blaine for even offering that spot to you, for pulling you back into that career when he knows damn well you should be out for good."

"I can do this!" Starsky insisted. He had worked so hard and waited so long. This was his only shot, no one was going to take it away now. "And I'm happy I get to work under Blaine again."

"Bull-shit," Al laughed humorlessly.

"I am," Starsky lied.

"Why are you doing this?" Rosie asked. "What are you trying to prove?"

"Nothing."

"Then what are you going back for?" Al pressed.

"You're a smart boy, David," Rosie said. "You're young and so full of potential; there are so many other things you could do, if you would just let go of the past and allow yourself to picture a new future."

"This _is_ my future," Starsky said firmly. "Why can't you understand that this is only thing I want to do?"

"You barely survived the things that happened to you!" Al exclaimed. "You're still struggling to get back on your feet. Why would you want to go patrol the streets again, huh? Under _John Blaine_. Don't you remember what that was like the first time? What he was like towards you back then? That uniform isn't going to mean what you want it to this time around, kiddo. It's going to be a target on your back. And that career will kill you, just like it killed your father, just like it killed half the guys you went through the academy with. If you don't die by someone's hand or a gun, then it'll kill you a little at a time. You're not as strong as you used to be, Davy; you're not the same as you were before, and Hutch isn't going to be there to pick up the slack or watch your back."

"I'm strong," Starsky growled, voice low, though he wondered how his aunt and uncle could so clearly see what he thought he had been careful to hide. He was afraid—terrified, even—of what the future held. But he didn't dare say that out loud. "And I don't need Hutch to keep me safe."

"That's a lie." Al's face contorted with worry. "I know it, and you know it too."

Despite the pounding of the water, Starsky heard the front door open and close, followed by the creaking of the staircase and Lucky's chorus of excited barks. Turning the water off, he took a series of deep chested breaths and wiped his hands over his bloodshot eyes. The time he was allotted for quietly grieving had come to an abrupt end; he was no longer alone.

Xx

Wrapping a towel around his waist, Starsky emerged from the master bathroom to find Lucky, exhausted but pleased, sprawled on the floor at the foot of the bed; and Hutch, paint-stained t-shirt clinging to his back and rugged work pants splattered with building debris, collecting the discarded police uniform from floor.

"Hey, _Mister Police-Man_ ," Hutch rumbled in a song-song tone. Hanging the pants in the closet, his hands smoothed over the wrinkles threatening to settle into the dark material. "You're home early."

"Quiet day. Blaine told me to beat it for the weekend."

"Yeah? That's great."

"Is it?" Starsky grunted, irritated both by his need to lie and how quickly his words had been accepted.

"Sure it is. Jack wanted to hit the bars later on tonight, and you can come with us. And I'm going to need your help at the game in morning. My assistant coach flaked, _again_. It'll be great to have you there to help keep all those kids in line."

Starsky sat heavily on the corner of the bed. Jack Mitchell had been in the city for four months and residing in their spare bedroom for one. A holdover friend from Hutch's childhood in Minnesota, Mitchell was a solid link to the past that Starsky hadn't realized Hutch had allowed himself to hold on to. Hutch had never spoken of Mitchell before the day he and his impetuous attitude had arrived in Bay City, but he had become a fixture in their lives, filling their quiet peaceful moments at home with the endless chomping of bubble-gum and a constant urging that they join him night-after-night at the various clubs and bars.

"I really don't feel like going out, Hutch."

"Oh, come on, you never come out anymore."

"And why can't you have Jack help you at the game?" Starsky groaned, struggling to gracefully—and covertly—decline his attendance at another activity he didn't have the energy to be a part of. Though Keiko's interest in little league had faltered months ago, his mother had been adamant that he continue to participate, and struggling to salvage his "little brother's" opinion of—and experience playing—his favorite sport, Hutch had begun coaching Keiko's team.

"Because, unlike you, Jack didn't fill out the necessary paperwork at the beginning of the season to be a backup. He isn't allowed on the field and you are."

"Right." Starsky rolled his eyes. "Too bad for you, your old buddy sucks at crossing his t's and dotting his i's. He's a lot better at baseball than I'll ever be."

"That is not true," Hutch disagreed. "You're a pro at catching those pop-flies, and, besides, you're way better with those kids than Jack is. He doesn't have the patience for it." He smiled. "Or for anyone who isn't offering him a stiff drink and good time."

Exhausted by the day and the proposition, Starsky rubbed his hands over his eyes. "It's been a long week, I really don't feel like corralling a bunch of sixth graders."

"Come on, sweetheart."

"Don't call me that," Starsky snapped, voice laced with irritation over the pet name Hutch had begun using in recent months. "It makes me feel like I'm your chick or something."

"You do realize we're married, right?" Hutch laughed. "Gender aside, that does kind of make you my forever chick."

Groaning, Starsky fell on his back and covered his eyes with his forearm. It wasn't so much the intention of the endearment that bothered him, rather the word. There was weakness to it, a meek emasculating undertone that intensified his insecurities, leaving him feeling incapable and small.

"Okay," Hutch growled softly. Starsky felt the mattress dip as Hutch settled next to him, propping his head up with one hand as he placed the other on Starsky's naked chest. "What's going on with you?"

"Nothing. What's going on with you?"

"It doesn't look like nothing to me. Why are you so upset?"

"Maybe you need to get your eyes checked; I am not upset."

" _David_."

Grabbing Hutch's hand tightly, Starsky ran the tip of his index finger over his ring. A thick silver band that was twin of his own, its presence was still as remarkable as the day as he had placed it on Hutch's finger. Closing his eyes, Starsky exhaled heartily. He wasn't alone; Hutch was right beside him. The ring was proof of the one promise they both intended to keep—forever.

"I don't like the sound of that," Hutch whispered. "Or how red your skin is. You have to quit boiling yourself in the shower, one of these days you're going to end up in the ER."

"It wasn't too hot this time."

"This time isn't the one I'm worried about."

"It's fine," Starsky assured, though he wondered if Hutch's words were a warning or an admission, if he knew about the time when the water had been too hot and Starsky too numb to realize his skin was being seared. But Hutch couldn't know, Starsky reminded himself, the damaged area had been easily covered beneath his boxer shorts; a secret effortlessly kept by the largest issue still lingering between them.

"David, listen—"

"I need you to leave," Starsky said abruptly. Letting go of Hutch's hand, he gripped the bath towel, securing it around his waist as he inched toward the other side of the bed. "If you and Jack want me to go out, then I need to put some clothes on."

"Okay," Hutch said, seemingly unaffected by the inevitable request. Standing, he moved toward the master bathroom, then hesitated in the doorway. "I think you should start seeing a psych again," he whispered, back turned, head bowed thoughtfully.

"Don't tell me what to do, Hutch."

"I'm not telling you what to do, I'm making a suggestion. You're not doing well. Your nightmares have escalated since you went back to work, and I don't like how you've been acting lately. You burn yourself in the shower so that you can feel in control of something, but what are you going to do to yourself when that's no longer enough? You need to talk to somebody."

"No." Starsky shook his head stubbornly. He couldn't do anything that would comprise his place on Blaine's team. His job was the only thing keeping him focused; the only thing keeping his hope for the future alive. "I can't talk to anyone, you know that. If Ryan found out he'd make me resign."

"Nobody would have to know."

"That's not true," Starsky whispered. "You'd know, and so would I."

"What's another secret between just the two of us, baby?"

Starsky closed his eyes, feeling weighted by impossibly of Hutch's soft words. He couldn't keep another secret, the pressure of it would crush him.

Xx

The trio went to a bar on the edge of the city. Small, shabby, and sleazy, it was dive, but for unknown reasons it had become one of Jack Mitchell's favorite places—something that still baffled Starsky. Why Mitchell would want to spend a Friday night drinking there over The Pits or even Sullivan's, the high-end club Hutch had always favored, he didn't understand. But the establishment was well lit and the tables were small—promising to decrease the physical proximity between Hutch and himself—and that was enough to put Starsky at ease.

"So," Mitchell said, snapping his wad of bubble-gum obnoxiously as peered across the table at Starsky. "You get a look at that Taj Mahal Cam's building in your basement yet?"

Starsky frowned over the foreign nickname—another unknown detail of Hutch's past Mitchell had unearthed when he arrived. Why Jack Mitchell was allowed refer to Hutch with a shorted version of the name on his secret psychological history, Starsky didn't understand—nor was he a fan of Mitchell using it so loosely—but he knew it added to the growing annoyance he already harbored about names. While Hutch had long ceased referring to Starsky by his surname, Starsky was prohibited from doing the same as Hutch's hatred for the old family moniker remained as staunch as it ever was.

" _Hutch_ doesn't let anyone go down there," Starsky said. Scanning the room, he set his gaze on Hutch and watched him carefully as he stood in the line for drinks at the bar. "Not yet, anyway."

"He tell you what he's doing with it?"

Starsky shook his head. Renovating the bottom half of Venice Place was Hutch's "new job"; years ago, the space had housed a popular Italian restaurant but sitting vacant for nearly two decades the decrepit area was in shambles and had been serendipitously included when Hutch had purchased the building.

"Ah, don't worry, he won't tell me either," Mitchell laughed. "But it's got to be something good, right? The crew at Home Depot know him by name he spends so much time there."

"Yeah," Starsky muttered, feeling a pang of lingering guilt. He hadn't wanted Hutch to restore the bottom of the building. In fact, he had been downright panicked—determined not to allow his husband to commence what promised to be an extraordinarily challenging project—as Hutch didn't have any experience building or renovating anything, least of all the basement of their apartment.

"Well, I have to do something, if I'm not going to be a cop anymore," Hutch had said, a hint of frustration to his tone when he finally told Starsky of his plans. "And think of the equity it'd give us. We could rent it out or keep it for ourselves."

While he didn't like the prospect, Starsky had found himself complying with Hutch's desires. The venture had quickly turned into a time-sucking money pit, but it gave Hutch something to do, which was probably worth more in the end than all the money they'd dump into it before it was finished. Although, money was not something either of them had to worry about.

It seemed silly now—when Starsky thought about it—how in the midst of his post-Marcus confusion and fear, the most glaring change to the life he had built with Hutch had been so carelessly overlooked. Hutch had bought and renovated Venice Place in record time, something Starsky had assumed the sale of the beach house had allowed him to do; he had paid to rebuild the Camaro, a restoration job that had cost more than Starsky wanted to think about; Hutch had swiftly paid all of Starsky's medical bills when workers comp suddenly decided they weren't responsible for them; and unemployed, Hutch had nonchalantly shouldered their living expenses for months, as though he was picking up something as paltry as a bar tab.

Richard Hutchinson had died, and with all the horrible things he had left behind—all the terrible debilitating feelings his passing had awoken in Hutch—he had left something good as well. Trust funds for each of his children and a life insurance policy cash-out that had more zeros tacked on the end of it than Starsky had ever seen. It seemed that Richard Hutchinson had been a very important man, indeed, and, given the sudden change in status of their bank account, it seemed that neither Starsky nor Hutch had to work again.

Starsky frowned as Hutch smiled, finally reaching the front of the bar line. Pointing at the beer tap he lifted three fingers, tossing some cash on the counter as the woman behind the bar smiled flirtatiously and complied with his silent request.

"Ah, don't worry about her," Mitchell said knowingly, looking between Starsky and Hutch. "He may be flirting with her, but he's going home with you."

"I'm not worried," Starsky said, absently smoothing his thumb over his wedding ring. But he felt a pang of jealously as Hutch leaned across the bar and said something the woman found particularly funny. He grinned as she dissolved into laughter and clutched his upper arm.

"What a flirt," Mitchell snorted. " _God_ , somethings never change; he has always been so damned promiscuous—"

"Shut up," Starsky said, as Mitchell's words sparked a deep-seeded fear he tried hard to ignore. So many things had changed since Hutch had been dismissed from Bay City PD—so many important things had shifted between them—but, despite the rings and vows binding them together, their physical relationship had yet to recover. And if Hutch was receiving sexual satisfaction from someone else then Starsky was sure he didn't want to know. He didn't want to think about what that would mean, or what confronting something as damaging as infidelity would force him to tolerate; he knew his intense—almost frantic—need for the man standing paces away was something that would never change. "It isn't like that. _He_ isn't like that."

"Oh, yeah? Then tell me, Starsky, what exactly do you think he is like?"

Snapping his gaze to Mitchell, a cold feeling settled in the pit of Starsky's stomach. Mitchell's eyes were guarded, his expression nearly unreadable, and for a moment Starsky wondered which one of them knew the real Hutch best—his childhood best friend, the young boy who had grown into a man alongside Hutch, who was privy to the events that had shaped him and the horrible things he shouldn't have had to endured; or his husband, a man whom had only known Hutch in adulthood, who had never met a member of his family but who had grown love to him, becoming painfully attached to the person Hutch presented himself to be.

"What?" Starsky croaked, and for a terrible moment he thought to himself that he didn't know who Hutch really was—that he couldn't possibly know—not with all the things he had tried to hide.

"Never mind." Mitchell shook his head. "It's nothing; I shouldn't have said anything."

"No, really, Jack. " Starsky grimaced as his eyes found Hutch again, the woman behind the bar was writing something on a napkin, an item that was then flirtatiously shoved into the breast pocket of Hutch's flannel shirt. "What is that supposed to mean?" Starsky demanded. How many of the secrets lingering in Hutch's past was Mitchell really privy to, and how many new ones was he safeguarding now? "Why would you ask me that?"

Pursing his lips, Mitchell's brows furrowed conflictingly. "Nothing," he said after a moment, forcing the word and a smile. "I didn't mean anything by it. Jesus, you're so uptight; you need to relax a little."

"I am not uptight."

"Oh, come on, Starsky, your tension is palpable. Anyone can see that your stress-level is through the roof."

"Is that your professional opinion?" Starsky spat, unnerved by the prospect that he was being scrutinized not just by Hutch's best friend but by a man with a very specialized medical degree.

After fulfilling his residency and becoming board certified, Mitchell had lasted exactly one year before giving up medicine and moving to Las Vegas, then Bay City, embarking on what Hutch jokingly referred as a nomadic playboy lifestyle—an existence that Starsky knew was supported and encouraged by Mitchell's family's old money and high social status back in Duluth.

"God, no. That's just an easy observation, my friend. You woke up screaming again last night, and I got to tell you, I have never heard someone scream like that—at least not in real life. In a horror movie, sure, but God-damn, Starsky. It's a good thing you two don't have neighbors."

"Leave it alone, Jack," Hutch warned deeply, his eyes gleaming with fierce protectiveness as he passed around the beers and sunk into the chair next to Starsky.

"What else did you hear?" Starsky asked quietly, scandalized by the notion that if Mitchell had heard him screaming then he must have heard what happened after—what _always_ happened after—Hutch gripped his shoulders tightly and whispered deeply in his ear, gently pulling him from the nightmares of the past into the safety of the present. And even though he was appalled by the notion of an outsider being privy to his pain, Starsky knew nothing could be done about it now. The hysterical sobbing fits were as violent and unavoidable as the nightmares that prompted them.

"He didn't hear anything, David," Hutch soothed. Inching closer, he placed his hand on Starsky's leg under the table and squeezed reassuringly, but his lips formed a straight line as he looked at Mitchell, daring him to disagree.

Mitchell looked perplexed—conflicted—by Hutch's fierce determination not to discuss what had occurred during the night. "Cam," he said seriously. "You know as well as I do that—"

"That you heard nothing," Hutch growled.

Mitchell stared at Hutch stubbornly for a moment, before leaning back in his chair and taking drink of his beer. "Boy, your A's are looking like shit, old buddy," he said, foam clinging to his lip as he peered over his glass and tactfully changed the subject.

"It's early yet," Hutch nodded approvingly, "give them time."

"You always say that," Mitchell snorted. "But I suppose you have to. That damned team of yours hasn't won a World Series since '89..."

Listening to Mitchell and Hutch talk baseball, Starsky sipped his beer sullenly, struggling to recall the details of the night that Hutch had carefully ensured remained omitted by his best friend.


	35. Chapter Thirty-Five

With a little league game running well into the afternoon, a late celebratory dinner at a local pizza chain for Keiko and his teammates, followed by one too many rounds with Huggy and Jack Mitchell at The Pits, Saturday passed in an instant. Exhausted, sore, and a bit hung-over, it was well past noon when Starsky awoke to an empty bedroom and the curtains fluttering against the breeze. It took a moment for him to place where he was—how he had slept so late and why—but the slight pounding behind his eyelids and the tender sour feeling in his stomach were both quick reminders that he was neither as energetic nor as young as he once was.

Lying lazily in bed, he stared at the ceiling, extending his arm and snaking his hand to rest on Hutch's side of the bed. The sheets felt cold beneath his touch, a clear indication that he had risen hours ago. Though that was certainly no surprise; Hutch had always been an early riser—something that Starsky had always attributed to his apparent strict upbringing—and since his departure from Bay City PD and his subsequent commencement on the basement project, Hutch had begun waking well before sunrise.

Somedays Starsky wondered how Hutch mustered the energy to get up so early—especially with so little sleep—but most of the time he tried hard not to consider things better left alone. Thinking about such things would only leave him feeling defeated and embarrassed or frustrated and infuriated, as Hutch's assumed exhaustion could only be attributed to two very glaring things: Hutch's late nights out with Jack Mitchell or having to handle yet another one of Starsky's draining nightmares. But if Hutch felt tired then he was good at hiding it. Every morning he looked the same, greeting Starsky with a well-rested smile.

Emerging from the bedroom, Starsky blinked blearily, scratching his naked side where the elastic of his pajamas pants hung low on his waist.

 _"... Nearly a year has passed since Twenty-seven year-old Matthew Avery disappeared…"_

" _H-utch_ ," he groaned, the word escaping his throat in a groggy whine, as the high-pitched feminine voice trickled from the television in living room, drifting down the hallway at an unnerving volume. He hated the news—not that anyone could call Callie Baker's public access show news. Too young, too blonde, and too determined to uncover the next earth shattering expose regarding Bay City PD's internal policies, Baker rubbed Starsky the wrong way—something that had been intensified by the handful of times she had tried to contact him regarding the secrecy shrouding the details of Simon Marcus's death and the mishandling of the Brian Blackwell case.

 _"...Avery was the first to go missing in what appears to be a series of disappearances in the city. In total, six local men have vanished, and the similarities between them are astounding. All middle-aged, each of the men have vast criminal histories and were last seen frequenting the same drinking establishment just before disappearing…"_

"Christ!" Shaking his head, Starsky grasped the remote from the coffee table, abruptly switching the television off. "If twenty-seven is middle age then what the hell does that make me?"

"Old," Hutch chuckled light-heartedly from his spot at the timber kitchen island. "You know, I hate to break it to you, buddy, but you're a lot older than Callie Baker. There's no way she's a day over twenty-three."

"Yeah, well, I'm older than you too," Starsky groused. "Which leads me to question why you would _even_ bother watching her shitty show. I thought you were smarter than that, and I know you _pride_ yourself on being such an intelligent person, so why the fuck are you filling our apartment with her crap?"

"Wow, someone has a grudge. Did she get a hold of your cellphone number again?"

"No. But interactions with her," Starsky grimaced disgustedly, "they just fucking linger."

"Well, rest assured, buddy, her reports are hardly relevant. If she really knew what she was doing or was serious about the conspiracies she desperately wants to uncover, she'd be looking for a new medium. Something more current, social media maybe, or a hyped-up YouTube channel. This public access shit isn't going to get her very far."

"But you support public access," Starsky said, his face contorting with confusion over the repulsion in Hutch's tone. The total of Hutch's yearly donations to PBS was almost maddening—as was the array of pledge gifts he had collected over the years. "And if you don't like her either then why are you giving her ratings?"

"It's filler." Eyes frozen on the small moleskin notebook laying atop aged building plans, Hutch tucked his mechanical pencil behind his ear and shrugged. "Background noise to fill the air while I concentrate on other things."

"What kind of other things?" Peering over Hutch's shoulder, Starsky attempted to peek at the secret basement plans but was disappointed when Hutch promptly closed the notebook.

"None of your business."

"Oh, come on. Just a hint?"

"Nope."

"But it's my apartment, too!"

"And it's my project; besides, I want it to be a surprise. Don't ruin it."

"Fine." Frowning, Starsky nodded at the delicate paper unfolded on the island, an uneasy expression settling on his face as an odd feeling filled his chest. Hand drawn on yellowing paper, the corners were crumbling with age and the pencil markings were faded. But squinting slightly, Starsky was able to decipher the outline of a room surrounded by foreign elegant writing too washed-out and too small to read from afar. "What are those?"

"Building schematics."

"I can _see_ that. What are they for? Where did you get them?"

Hutch shook his head, dismissing the questions as he asked his own. "You hungry?"

Tender stomach churning, Starsky watched Hutch fold the plans with painstaking vigilance, biting the inside of his cheek as they were then carefully placed in-between the pages of the notebook.

"Are you hungry?" Hutch repeated, his tone non-committal as he watched Starsky carefully.

"Uh," Starsky breathed, struggling to silence the anxiety threatening to overwhelm him. Forcing a deep breath, he held it momentarily, suddenly unnerved to be focus of Hutch's attention. His calm demeanor was unsettling and the sparkle of his eyes awakened a cluster of ruthless memories Starsky forced himself to ignore. Exhaling finally, he looked around the room and frowned, his eyes searching for something unseen. "Where's Lucky?"

"Aunt Rosie picked him up early this morning. Her school district is putting on some open house thing today and she needed a dog."

"What? Why?"

"Apparently, they're doing a scavenger hunt and some asshole put a dog on the list." Hutch laughed. "Can you imagine what that's going to be like? She said over three hundred families signed up to do that activity and every single one is going to bring their dog."

"When's she bringing him back?" Brow furrowing, Starsky absently clenched his fists, longing for Lucky's eager grounding presence.

"She isn't," Hutch said. "But we'll get him when we go over there tonight."

"And where's Mitchell?"

Though distance from Jack Mitchell was as coveted as it was rare, the man's absence was glaring—and nearly as bothersome as Lucky's. There weren't enough distractions, Starsky realized, not without their dog or Mitchell's annoying gum chewing to fill up the silence of the room. He shouldn't have turned the television off, he thought frantically. Listening to Callie Baker's drivel would have been way better than contending with the haunting echo of their apartment—or the lingering turbulence of Hutch's secrecy regarding the basement.

"I don't know, and I don't care." Hutch offered Starsky a toothy grin. "But I'm sure Jack's having a _great_ time. He disappeared with a couple of fun looking ladies just before closing time last night, remember?"

"No," Starsky said, nearly choking on the words. His memories of the night prior were a nausea inducing blur. "I think I floated away some time before that."

"Oh, you definitely did, but you had fun. It's been a while since I've seen you look that relaxed. It was nice; I just wish it would have lasted. Take a deep breath, sweetheart, we'll turn the TV back on and all this agitation will just fade away."

"Won't work," Starsky whispered helplessly. "Not today."

"Sure it will." Extending his arms slowly, Hutch settled his hands gently on Starsky's hips, pulling him to stand in-between his knees. "It's okay," he asserted. "You're okay and I'm okay, but I'm still waiting for that deep breath."

Closing his eyes, Starsky inhaled an agitated breath, hating that his unstable behavior necessitated both Hutch's caution and his assurances. It hadn't always been like this, and some days it wasn't at all.

There were days when he woke up and things were fine—not fine in the same way he had known it before. He didn't feel good or normal but he wasn't overcome by nervousness, either. The morning would pass easily and the day would be somewhat smooth. But feeling that way usually only coincided with the days Blaine put him on the roster. Work was good; it gave him something to focus on, a reason to ignore the murky feelings threatening to overwhelm him at any given time. His determination to portray himself as normal and stable was adamant; he wouldn't act in public the way he sometimes acted at home; he couldn't allow anyone know the truth.

Work was one thing but the comfort and privacy of the home he shared with Hutch was something else. It was the only place Starsky allowed himself to be weak. And there were the mornings—usually following particularity traumatic nights—when Starsky was downright clingy, seeking out Hutch's presence and a painfully close proximity to ground him when his world felt overcome by static and uncertainty.

But today wasn't one of those days, and consumed by agitation Starsky had no choice but to back away from the scaling warmth of his husband's touch.

"I'm sorry," Starsky exhaled, his quiet voice thick. "I just _can't_ , not right now."

Standing, Hutch moved to the far end of the kitchen to fill a glass with water from the tap on the fridge. Grabbing the bottle of Advil and a couple prescriptions from the counter, he stood in front of Starsky once more. "It's fine." Handing over the glass, he placed one pill after another in Starsky's outstretched palm. "You slept late, so you're a little off schedule today. I had a feeling you weren't going to be okay with me touching you."

Tossing the pills in his mouth, Starsky chased them with the glass of water, stifling the urge to ask why—if Hutch knew what his reaction was going to be—he didn't withhold from touching him in the first place. But he knew Hutch's hope was his own, that his husband's physical contact was nothing more than optimistic desire, the same silent hope that accompanied each sunrise and died a little more each night.

They both harbored hopefulness—an almost childlike optimism—that each morning Starsky awoke would finally be the day his anguish and confusion would finally, magically, disappear. And that he would seek Hutch out, not for reassurance to calm the hysteria threatening to overcome him nor to display an obstinate desire to be separated by physical space, but as he once did, when their silences were companionable and fierce love between them electric, not easily forgotten—or ignored.

"You really have to eat something now. It's not good for those pills to sit on an empty stomach," Hutch said softly. "Why don't you take a quick shower and then I'll take you out for the biggest, greasiest cheeseburger we can find."

"Okay," Starsky agreed weakly, unsure if he could stomach such a thing if his discomfort persisted. And then, just as quickly as it was disconcerting, Hutch's expression changed, quickly transforming to reflect the only sentiment Starsky couldn't tolerate. Not quite concern—at least not in the almost overpowering way Hutch had conveyed it before Simon Marcus—but with eyes sparkling with unasked questions and suggestions he didn't dare make, Hutch's face froze, weighted under forced patience and a hint of heartache.

"David—"

"I said _okay_ ," Starsky hissed as Hutch held his hands up in defense. He could handle waking up to an empty bed; he could dismiss Hutch's asinine insistence for secrecy regarding his beloved basement remodel; he could stand Lucky's unplanned absence; he could tolerate Jack Mitchell's presence in their lives; and he could accept his own sporadic irrational emotions—his inability to bear dark spaces or incapacity to successfully negotiate an impending panic attack. But this look—the horrible agonizing expression etching deep lines into Hutch's face—he could not endure. "Give me a second to take the deep breath you were going on about and then I'll get a move on with things."

Lips forming a straight line, Hutch nodded. But his expression didn't waiver, nor did he venture another word.

Xx

"I think we ought to get married," Hutch had said. Standing on his knees in front of where Starsky sat, hunched over, numb, and exhausted from another taxing nightmare on the corner of their bed, his tone was even as he gently wiped at Starsky's lingering tears, soothing his raw reddened cheeks with a cold wash cloth.

"What?" Starsky asked hoarsely, feeling a surge of apprehension.

"You heard me."

But Starsky wasn't sure he had, nor could his exhausted mind comprehend what would prompt Hutch to suggest such a thing—after everything, all the sleepless nights, panic attacks, and gut wrenching tears—why the hell would Hutch want to get married now?

"We're already married, aren't we?" he asked, his voice scratchy, tired, and small.

"Symbolically, yes. Legally, no."

"But we've never talked about making it legal before."

"That's because it wasn't an option before. Not when we were working so closely together, and now that my career path has changed I think our marital status ought to as well."

"But why?"

"Because it'll give you something concrete to hang on to and it'll give me peace of mind."

"What do you need peace of mind for?" Starsky pleaded softly, stomaching churning as fresh tears welled in his eyes. "What do you have to be worried about?"

Inhaling a shaky breath, Hutch didn't answer as he hung his head and stared at the floor, and Starsky realized how tired Hutch actually was—how mentally exhausted and downright different he looked—and for a moment, Starsky couldn't stand it, not the tired lines etched in Hutch's handsome face nor the idea that this was how they would make such an important life decision.

There should have been dinner and alcohol, laughter and passion. There should have been an undertone of excitement when proposing such a thing, not this. Not a quiet monotone proposal that sounded mechanical, prompted by duty and responsibly rather than desire.

"Why would you want me like this?" Starsky whispered brokenly. "You think this is going to get better, but it isn't. You think that eventually I'll be normal again but it won't happen. How can you say that this is the life you want to have?"

"Hey," Hutch soothed. Resting his hands on Starsky's thighs, he squeezed reassuringly and stared earnestly up into his eyes. "This doesn't change a thing. I will always want you, David."

"But I'm not the same as I was before. Isn't that what everyone is trying so hard to make me see? That I can't be, that I won't be? You shouldn't have to build a life with someone like me."

"That's only true if you believe it," Hutch said firmly. "And I don't. Baby, please don't tell me that you do. I love you. Nothing in the world will ever change that. All we're taking about is a piece of paper and a couple of rings. Something that'll remind you I'm always here and will legally ensure that I'll always have the power to take care of you. I just want to know that you're always taken care of, baby, that's all."

Looking back now, Starsky couldn't remember if he had agreed to marry Hutch or not. But he recalled other things, like the overwhelming panic that clutched his heart, leaving him breathless and afraid; and the way Hutch looked, the soft smile tugging on corner of his lips and the unnerving way his blue eyes sparkled in the moonlight.

Xx

"Keiko's getting real good at baseball," Starsky mumbled, his mouth full, as he sat across from Hutch in a corner circular stone patio set amongst the comforting lunch chatter of In-N-Out Burger crowd. Holding a massive burger in front of his face, he took another huge bite as droplets of melting cheese and sauce clung to his chin and dripped on and around his plate of French fries. "I mean, it's been a while since I've seen him play but _damn_. It's amazing how much he's improved since he started—"

"Don't talk with your mouth that full," Hutch reprimanded, pulling a wad of napkins from the dispenser and tossing them at Starsky. "It's disgusting to watch."

"Don't tell me what to do."

Starsky's knee-jerk assertion hung between them, threatening to dissolve the companionable mood they had settled into. Sighing, Hutch rested his elbows on the table and clasped his hands, rubbing them absently together before snaking his index finger up to adjust his dark aviator sunglasses.

Feeling a pang of regret, Starsky tossed the burger atop the fries and complied with the offending order. "Sorry," he grunted, wiping a napkin over his fingers with such force it tore.

"Yeah, I know." Snapping his gum in an agitated manner, Hutch set his disguised gaze on a far empty table.

Starsky grimaced, wishing he could retract his words. The statement had become a bad habit, an impetuous phrase that followed even the most gentle order—or suggestion—Hutch voiced.

Though he had never told Doctor Evans who had assaulted him at the Marcus compound—who they had looked like or why he had been left, almost unconsciously, holding Hutch responsible for the awful things that had been done—Starsky had confided in her his uncontrollable use of the phrase. She had advised him that the proclamation of the statement was purposeful, that the things he had endured had left him needing to forcefully assert his power over decisions that directly affected him. But knowing why he said the words did little the ease the regret he felt each time they escaped his mouth; it didn't erase the tired look on Hutch's face when he was struggling to react calmly to the declaration; and it didn't calm Starsky's silent worry that someday he might push Hutch too far.

"I don't always want to say it," Starsky whispered, needing to soften the statement somehow. "Half the time it just comes out."

"I know that, too."

"I said I was sorry," Starsky said, though he knew the apology was meant to soothe himself more than Hutch. He was exhausting to deal with—he knew that—and there weren't enough apologies in the world to make up for—or fully erase—the sting of some of the terrible things he had said. If his anxiety and frustration were ammunition, then Hutch was an all too easy target, always required to bite his tongue and force a calm demeanor while absorbing the brunt of how jagged Starsky felt.

"How about we give sorry a rest today, huh?" Hutch said evenly.

Pursing his lips, Starsky pressed his palms to the top of the table. The day had started out horribly and now it was destined to end with Hutch dismissing his anger and forcing a placid tone when Starsky knew he would much rather explode then wordlessly seethe in the aftermath of his fury for the rest of the day.

"I don't want you to have to say things like that to me. I don't want you to—" Looking at the ground, Starsky was unable to finish his thought, or voice the fear he held closest to his heart. He didn't want Hutch to resent him for what he had become; he didn't want his illogical behavior to slowly splinter what they were still struggling to piece back together.

"Hey," Hutch rumbled knowingly. "I don't resent you, and I never will." Extending his arms, he placed his palms on top of Starsky's fingertips, smoothing the tip of his finger over the wedding band on his husband's index finger. "What is this?"

"A ring," Starsky scoffed, bristling slightly as Hutch began asking the same series of questions he always did when he thought Starsky was beginning to lose grip on the one thing that really mattered.

"What does it mean?"

"I means," Starsky sighed, elongating the soft words as he looked around to ensure no one was eavesdropping on their private conversation. But the crowd looked unaffected or uninterested by his husband's public reassurances, and focusing his gaze on Hutch once more, Starsky found him waiting patiently for the rest of the answer. "I means," Starsky repeated, his voice impossibly quiet, "that I'm not alone, and that, despite how I feel right now, you are going to love me, forever."

"Forever," Hutch affirmed.

Sighing, Starsky pulled his hands away, smoothing them up and down his jean covered thighs as he avoided Hutch's gaze and a haunting question looped endlessly in his mind. In an effort to make Starsky feel more secure, Hutch had thought of the affirming statements and he had prompted Starsky to repeat them countless times since they had married. So why couldn't Starsky believe the truth of the words? What was stopping him from trusting his husband's love and intentions with the same blind abandon he once had?

"I mean it about sorry, though," Hutch said. Pulling a few fries from beneath Starsky's burger, he shoved them in his mouth and continued, "You don't want to say it and I don't want to hear it. We're over it, buddy; we've traded that words so many times over the last few years that I'm not sure it means anything anymore."

Feeling a rush of affinity, Starsky's eyes sparked and a smile crept across his face. "Don't talk with your mouth full, and get your own fries."

"Are you kidding?" Hutch smiled, grabbing a few more fries. "Like you're going to eat them all, anyway." He nodded at the burger. "You still have to finish that monstrosity."

"Hey, you said the biggest, greasiest cheeseburger."

"And I delivered didn't I? I'll tell you what, you finish that thing and we'll go hit up Castle Hill for a few rounds of mini golf."

Starsky was taken aback by the suggestion. They hadn't played mini golf in years, let alone at the business they both fondly remembered as Castle Hill. With hours of operation running late into the night, they had once frequented the establishment often, first as work partners looking to blow off some steam at the batting cages and later, when their relationship grew into something more, when they branched out to different activities. And as their secret love grew many of their dates had begun at The Pits for dinner and a beer, moved to Castle Hill for a friendly round of mini-golf, and ended at one of their respective places.

"Aren't you in a hurry to get back to your basement project?" Starsky asked.

"Nah. You've been so busy now that you're back at work that I feel like I only see you when you're sleeping, and it's been forever since we've had a day without Jack hanging around. I don't want to go back to the basement, I want to spend some quality time with you before we're due at Rosie and Al's."

"Right," Starsky sighed.

Though he had nearly forgot about the commitment, Sunday evening dinners were a staple—not a completely unwelcome one—a long standing tradition that had begun when Starsky had moved out of their house, years ago, and into his first studio apartment. The ritual had went all but ignored by Hutch after his father's passing but had since been stanchly reinstated. And after everything Starsky and Hutch had endured in the last few years, their absence was neither tolerated nor easily accepted by Starsky's surrogate parents, as it was Rosie and Al's opportunity to verify their wellbeing with their own eyes.

Sometimes the commitment was annoying and others the expectation felt downright stifling. But today, Starsky found himself comforted by the idea that after a few rounds of mini golf—alone, with Hutch all to himself Lucky would eagerly greet them as they joined Rosie and Al for dinner.

"So, what do you say?" Hutch prompted. "Does mini golf sound like a plan?"

"Absolutely." Starsky nodded. "But only if we hit the batting cages, too."


	36. Chapter Thirty-Six

"You're quiet today," Whitley remarked, his voice noncommittal, his sunglass covered gaze locked on the empty cars surrounding them in the parking lot.

Arms crossed fitfully, Starsky grunted, shimmying himself further down, struggling to hide himself in the uncomfortable seat cushion of the passenger side of the squad car he shared with his partner. He didn't feel like talking today—hell, he had barely summoned the energy to get out of bed.

The alarm had gone off early, that morning, rousing him from fitful sleep, irritating him with a shrill series of beeps that ground on his nerves and awakened deep sadness inside of him. And not feeling ready to face the world, just yet—with his apprehension feeling so big and himself so small—he invited Lucky to lay beside him in the bed, burrowing both of them safely beneath the comforting warmth of sheets and weight of the down comforter. Resting his head on Lucky's side, Starsky wrapped his arms around the dog, pressing his palm against the soft fur on the Dalmatian's chest and allowing Lucky's steady breath to lull him into a deep sleep.

"Hey," Hutch's soft whisper had eventually wormed its way into Starsky's consciousness, rousing him as the covers were pulled back and warm fingers trailed first over his stubble-covered cheek then through his hair. "Hey."

"Hmm," Starsky growled, fighting the urge to roll over and return to sleep. Instead, he forced himself to open his eyes. Crouched beside the bed, Hutch smiled—an endlessly comforting sight.

"You slept through your alarm," Hutch said, words quiet and gentle. "If you don't get up now, you're not going to make to work on time."

Starsky blinked, struggling to rally the energy to care about the careful warning.

"What's the plan, sweetheart?" Hutch prompted after a few silent moments passed.

"No plan," Starsky whispered, tired voice ragged.

"Okay." Palm settling on Starsky's chest, Hutch's eyes flickered with concern but his smile remained. "So, does that mean no work today?" he asked carefully.

"For _fuck_ ," Starsky sighed, pulling away from his husband's touch. He felt as though the question flipped a switch inside of him, chasing away his sadness and awakening irrepressible fury. "Can't you let me be for one second?"

No work today, what was that supposed to mean? Was it a suggestion or an observation?

Or both?

Or neither?

Tossing the covers back, Starsky ushered Lucky out of the bed then sprung to his feet. His footsteps were firm, weighted and angry beneath his rigid body, as he moved to the closet to pull his uniform out haphazardly, leaving the wire hangers swinging in the wake of his force.

"It was just a question," Hutch said coolly. "I don't understand how you can be so pissed off about something as small as that."

"Yeah, well, you don't understand a lot of things!" Starsky spat, slamming the master bathroom door behind him.

Starsky sighed heavily, his guilt over another poorly managed morning churning in his stomach. Why did he have to be such an asshole? But why couldn't Hutch just learn to leave him alone? Why couldn't he allow Starsky to accept—or ignore—the consequences of his decisions—or his inability to make one—instead of hovering, appearing in the nick of time to prompt Starsky into action, highlighting his numbness, and making Starsky feel more incapable than he had to begin with?

"Uh, oh," Whitley laughed. "I know a frustrated sigh when I hear one. What's going on, the wife giving you a hard time or something?"

"What?"

"Your wife." Whitley nodded at Starsky's wedding ring. "You don't really talk about your personal life, but you wear a ring so, you know, I assumed."

"My wife?" Starsky repeated, struck by the absurdity of the word. Surely, Whitley knew—with Blaine's dislike of Hutch and the horrible rumors swirling the department regarding his departure, everyone had to know—who he was married to.

"Yeah. Your wife," Whitley chuckled. "Look if you don't want to talk about it, that's fine. Believe me, when I start the morning off fighting with my girlfriend it's just about the last thing I want to think about the rest of the day. Especially when I'm trying to keep my focus on the job and my head in the game. What was it about?"

"What?"

"Your argument."

Starsky blinked, struggling to comprehend if Whitley's words were covert probing for more carefully guarded information regarding Hutch or if he was laying groundwork for a poorly placed homophobic joke.

"Man, my girlfriend, Amber, gets after me all the time," Whitley continued. "She hates that I'm a cop. Well, she likes the uniform, if you know what I mean, and we've had our fair share of fun with the handcuffs, but the thought of having me out here, day-after-day, it wears on her."

"Yeah."

"Is your wife worried about you being back out here?"

"No." Starsky frowned.

"Really?" Whitley assessed him skeptically. "You've got to be kidding me. If I went through half the shit you did, Amber would never let me set a foot back into Metro. Jesus, I mean you were out for _two years_ —"

"How do you know about all that?"

"Fuck, Starsky, everyone knows about that. Now you really are kidding me. What Simon Marcus did to you, where he held you and how you were found, _man_ , that shit was all over the news for weeks."

"Right."

"And then the time it took you to pull your shit together enough to come back, I cannot _imagine_ how you talked your chick into being okay with that."

"I don't have a chick," Starsky said curtly.

"Oh, well, of course you don't," Whitley said, his tone apologetic. "Sorry, man, I didn't mean it in a derogatory way. I just meant it must have been really hard for your wife to stand back and watch you go—"

"Are you fucking with me?"

"What?" Whitley's face contorted with shock. "No."

"You're serious?"

"Yes. God, man, sorry I asked. That must have been some fight the two of you had. Forget I even brought it up—"

"Not your fault," Starsky said, unnerved the moment the well-used statement left his mouth. Yesterday, Hutch had told him they were done with sorry, and though Starsky had uttered the word a few scattered times throughout the rest of the day, Hutch hadn't responded to them. Nor had he expected Starsky to explain or acknowledge his angry outburst that morning. As quickly as it had happened, it had been forgotten; sorry was dead after all. "I'm an ass in the morning," he added softly.

"Aren't we all?" Whitley grinned. "What's her name?"

"Who?"

"Your wife?"

Snorting, Starsky shook his head. Somehow—despite everything that had happened—Whitley had remained unaware of who he was married to, and the knowledge hit Starsky like a summer breeze, wafting over him and loosening the knot in his chest. He felt lighter—slightly more at ease. Whitley didn't know the truth—which meant he could decide how much of it to tell. And for the first time in a long time, he felt in control, elated by prospect of only disclosing what he deemed necessary.

"Don't you worry about it," Starsky rumbled, turning his attention out the windshield.

Xx

"I don't know if I want to do this without you," Starsky had whispered in the early morning hours of his first day back at work. His stomach was churning, his hands shaking with nerves as forced one deep breath after another, fumbling with the buttons lining his shirt. Looking into to the large mirror on the back of the master bathroom door, he cringed in a pained manner. Clothed in the foreign stifling fabric of a dark blue police uniform, he didn't recognize the man staring back at him. His hair was cut too short for comfort and his shoulders were sunken, weighted by the sudden new reality the morning had brought; his reflection looked like it belonged to a stranger. "I don't even know if I really can."

"Yes, you do," Hutch assured, his voice soft yet firm. Standing beside him, he gently pushed Starsky's nervous hands to his sides, moving his own to proficiently loop the dark buttons into the small holes of fabric. "This was what you wanted, remember? This is the day you worked so hard to have. Don't ruin it for yourself now. You should be proud; I know I am."

"But nobody else thinks I can do this—that I _should_ be doing this."

"Forget what everyone else thinks; the only thing that matters is what you know."

"But I..." Starsky paused, inhaling a panicked breath. He couldn't return to work alone, not with the way things were now. Why did he ever think he could?

"Tell me what you know, sweetheart, "Hutch prompted gently.

"I don't know anything—not anymore."

"Then tell me what you're sure of."

"The only thing I'm sure of is you, and I can't stand the thought of riding in a strange squad car, looking beside me, and not seeing you there."

"I won't be there, and we can't change that now." Straightening Starsky's shirt collar, Hutch smiled encouragingly. "But I'll be here when you come home, and I'm a phone call or a text away in the meantime. I'm always here if you need me, you know that."

"S-sure," Starsky breathed, the word falling as flat as Hutch's assurances failed to comfort his building anxiety. A lump settled in the back of his throat, threatening to choke him, but he ignored it, forcing a nod then a small smile.

"You don't have to do this, you know." Hutch settled his hands on Starsky's shoulders. "I know that this was your goal, the driving force that propelled you to get to where you are, but it's okay if you've changed your mind."

"I haven't," Starsky lied weakly. Placing his hands over Hutch's he squeezed, struggling to memorize every detail of this moment—from the soft strength of Hutch's voice to the gentle love reflected in his eyes—knowing that he would need the comfort of the memory to make it through this day and whatever came after that. "You're right, you know. With or with you, I have to go back. This is something we both know I need to know I can still do."

Xx

"Hey, Starsky, wait up!"

Hearing the words, Starsky's face puckered with a frown and abruptly turning, he nearly lost his footing on the steep cement steps lining the front of the towering Metro building.

"Hey, pal." Lucas Huntley smiled, closing the gap between them to linger beside where Starsky stood, frozen, his eyes flickering with poorly concealed confusion. "Long time no see," he added warmly. "Where you headed?"

"Inside."

"I can see that," Huntley laughed. "I meant after you go inside, what direction are you planning on going...?"

"Huh?"

"...I'm on my way to the commissary, and I thought if you were headed downstairs then maybe I could buy you a cup of coffee, soda, something to entice you into a friendly conversation."

"Why?"

"What do you mean, _why_?" Huntley cupped Starsky's neck fondly. "I haven't seen you in ages. I just want to know how you've been since crawling back into that suffocating uniform."

"It's not suffocating," Starsky said, annoyed by the underlying truth of Huntley's seemingly innocent words. He shrugged away the man's lingering hand and took step back, assessing Huntley carefully.

Forcing a deep breath, Huntley planted his hands on his hips. "Okay," he said his voice light but knowing. "I get it. I've always been closer to Hutch than you and I came on a bit too strong. Let's start over. Hi, Starsky, I'm Lucas Huntley—you remember me, right? I'm the guy who recruited your other-half, the guy who tried to steal you from Blaine's team years ago, long before Dobey came along and scooped both you and Hutch up for Zebra detail. Anyway, this is the first time I've seen you since you've been back to work. If you have a second, I'd really like to talk to you, just to catch up and hear how things are going."

Glancing at his wristwatch, Starsky groaned, feigning disinterest in the offer. "I'm off the clock in 5—"

"Great!" Huntley grinned. "Screw the commissary, let's go have a beer."

Xx

"I saw Hutch the other day," Huntley said, eyes guarded as he sipped his beer and glanced around the nearly empty bar.

Starsky had wanted to go the The Pits, an invitation Huntley had quickly declined. He wanted to go somewhere new; somewhere neither of them had been before—at least while in the company of one another. And, so, that was why Starsky found himself sitting across from Hutch's mentor in a ratty cigarette charred claustrophobic booth in the back of a tiny hole in the wall bar off of Third Street.

"Yeah?" Starsky asked, though Huntley's statement was far from a surprise. Hutch's once a week lunch meetings with Huntley were no secret—after all, the man was his mentor, his substitute father of sorts, the only living person in the word, aside from Starsky, who seemed capable of accepting him unconditionally.

"He's looking pretty good these days. Happy. Like he's not as weighted as he used to be. I don't like the looks of you, though. Something about you is feeling strange." Huntley smiled. "Or maybe it's just that damn uniform throwing me off."

"This _damn_ uniform was the only offer I got when I was finally cleared to come back," Starsky groused. "Drop the bull-shit, Lucas. Why are we really here?"

"I told you, I just wanted to know how—"

"Things are going," Starsky finished forcefully. "Yeah, I know, but why?"

"Oh, that hurts, pal. Really cuts me deep. I'm tight with Hutch but I care about you too. You two guys, you're my like my kids, and you're gonna fault me for wanting to know how your life is going."

"It's going. Though some days I wonder where."

"Well, you can join the club with that sentiment, Starsky. I think that's the furtive feeling that propels most of us through our adult years. Does what I do really matter? And how could I be living my life differently? Those are the questions that haunt most of us; the great insecurities we never bother to talk about. Speaking of ghosts, how's Blaine treating you these days?"

"Fine."

"Now, why don't I believe that?"

Starsky shrugged. "It's probably the uniform making the words seem weak," he grumbled. If Huntley was digging for dirt on Blaine then he was asking the wrong person. Starsky may not have been his superior's biggest fan at the moment—and he and Blaine had their differences from time to time, especially where Hutch was concerned—but he wasn't about to foster any ill-will or further the bad-blood that had lingered between Huntley and Blaine since their academy days.

"Probably," Huntley said, brows narrowing skeptically, but he abandoned the question, allowing them to settle into a comfortable silence.

"You said you saw Hutch the other day," Starsky said, moments later, when his beer glass was nearly empty. "What did you guys talk about?"

"Nothing much."

"Now it's my turn not to believe you."

"What do you want me to say, pal?" Huntley asked, holding his palms up exasperatedly. "That he spilled his guts to me? That we had a come to Jesus moment and he broke down in tears? You know him as well as it do. Shit, you know him better than I do. That isn't his style. He's gonna bottle his shit up until he breaks and all hell will break lose after that."

"Is that what you think he's doing?"

"Is that what you're doing?"

Pursing his lips, Starsky held his gaze for a moment, considering the seriousness sparkling in Huntley's blue eyes, until dropping it to the table. "Of course not," he whispered, though his statement was less than convincing.

"Sure." Huntley nodded. "You're hanging in, right?"

"Of course I am."

"Of course you are."

"I really shouldn't," Starsky protested as Huntley lifted his fingers, motioning at the wandering bartender for another round.

"Why?"

"One is kinda my limit these days."

"Unless Hutch says it's okay?" Huntley scoffed. "Oh, I get it, unless he's around to babysit you and never on a school night, right? Come on, Starsky, I won't tell if you won't."

But it was more than that, something that, if Hutch was confiding in him, Starsky knew Huntley was well aware of. "It isn't the drinks, Lucas," he growled, quietly seething that the man sitting across from him would even make him utter words hinting at his greatest weakness.

"It's the interference with your meds, right?"

"I'm _not_ going to talk about that."

The bartender came and went, trading their empty glasses for ones brimming with foam and glistening with amber liquid, all while Starsky's scandalized gaze didn't leave Huntley's knowing one.

"Of course you aren't," Huntley said finally, voice soft and understanding. "Why would you want to? That shit with Simon Marcus and what happened after Ryan and Dobey canned Hutch, that's in your rear-view right?"

"What the _fuck_ do you know about it?"

"Only the same shit you do," Huntley countered. "You asked me why I asked you here and what Hutch and I talk about. Well, you're the only topic of conversation, I'm afraid. He's worried about you; he thinks you've taken on more than you can handle, and he wants me to keep an eye on you."

" _Great_." Starsky frowned, enclosing his beer glass in what he wished was a grip tight enough to shatter the frosted glass. Maybe if he could splinter the milky walls insulting him with their steadfast solidarity then it would fully explain the frustration pounding in his heart or the claustrophobic helplessness threatening to overwhelm him.

"So, what do you want me to say to Hutch?" Huntley asked. "Because you know he'll want to know my opinion on things. Shit, that's the only reason you and I are sitting here, right?"

"Tell him I'm doing fine—that I'm going to be just fine. He already worries too much."

"Right." Huntley looked unconvinced. "You know Starsky, you and I aren't all that different…"

"Bull-shit."

"…Hutch never really wanted to be where you are, you know? Being a cop was never his goal. He could have just as easily become a fireman, an accountant, or a doctor— _Jesus_ , his dad would have _loved_ that—the thing that changed his life was a chance meeting with me in a coffee shop…"

"Where the fuck are you going with this?"

"…But you and I," Huntley continued, impervious to Starsky's question. "We're different. Your third generation law enforcement. Your grandad, your dad, they were both cops; this shit is in _your_ blood. You couldn't stop being a cop if you wanted to; you eat, breathe, and live blue. And I know what that's like because I'm the same way; there's no other option for us, pal. If we can't do this then we may as well shrivel up and die. I love Hutch like crazy—you know I do; that kid and I are tight—but he's not like you and me. The generational pull, the loyalty to a badge, those are things he will never understand, and that's why he's fine not being a cop, and why, when faced with wearing a uniform or nothing at all, you chose what you did."

Foam clinging to his upper lip, Starsky shook his head, glancing at the deep navy material covering his body, his gaze fixating on bottom of unbuttoned sleeves cuffed on his forearms. The uniform was foreign, uncomfortable, _suffocating_ —just as Huntley had said—and he felt a panic build in his chest as an uncomfortable thought settled in the back of his mind. Did Lucas Huntley understand him better than Hutch? Did the man sitting across from him understand the fragmented motivation propelling him forward more than his husband ever could?

"Listen to me," Huntley laughed. "Carrying on like some old man, talking to you like the shit I have to say is _valuable_. I know it's not, not for a determined guy like you. Starsky, you know what's right and wrong, what's worth sticking around for and what to walk away from. I've always admired that about you; you've always known when to fight and when to quit."

Draining his beer, Starsky didn't answer; he wasn't sure if the person Huntley was describing was him anymore.

Xx

Entering the front door of Venice Place, Starsky heard muffled laughter trickle down to the landing as he hung his jacket and his head. He wasn't in the mood for this, not after the residual exhaustion from the both beers and conversation he had shared Huntley seeped into mind and body, weighing him down.

"What do you think, old buddy?"

Starsky rolled his eyes as Mitchell asked Hutch the same question that always seemed to leave his mouth after one round too many, peppering his sentences like a qualifier.

"I don't know, Jack," Hutch said. "I think I'm going to sit this one out."

"Why?" Mitchell asked.

"Because I need to be here."

"Oh, that's an excuse! You know, as well as I do, that Huggy would be happy to stay with Starsky, or his Aunt or Uncle would—"

"I'm not leaving him, Jack."

"Buddy, all we're talking about is a couple of days. A weekend away, somewhere you can blow off some steam, take a breath and a break from—"

"What makes you think I need a break?"

"Are you kidding me?" Mitchell snorted humorlessly. "With the nights he has and the way he talks to you? It has to be grinding on you, Cam, tearing you up inside. Taking a break doesn't make you terrible person, it makes you human. _Jesus Christ_ , even live-in caretakers take a day off once in a while—"

"It isn't like that!" Hutch protested.

Starsky frowned. Damn right it wasn't like that.

"I'm home," he growled, jogging up the stairs and down the hallway. "Where's Lucky?" he asked, ignoring the guilty looks exchanged by Mitchell and Hutch as he scanned the empty living room floor.

"On the patio." Mitchell said.

"Why?" Starsky asked.

"He wanted to be out there," Hutch assured. "It's a beautiful evening, you know how he likes to lay on the hot pavement and soak up the sun."

Xx

"Hey, kid," Starsky whispered. Emerging through the half-open patio door he found Lucky, laying contentedly on the side on the sunniest part of the enclosed patio. Hutch was right: the dog did enjoy the sun. Hearing Starsky's voice, the Dalmatian pulled his head off the ground, his eyes sparkled with enthusiasm as his jaw dropped, extending his lips in a smile peppered by joyful chirps.

"Don't get up," Starsky laughed as the dog shifted lazily on the ground. "Really, I'll come to you." Dropping to his knees, he smoothed his palms through Lucky's fur, leaning over to rest his scar-covered cheek atop the crown of the dog's head. "I missed you today," he whispered, a hint of uncertainty to his tone as he breathed in the dog's familiar smell. A comforting mixture of the natural shampoo Hutch insisted on bathing him with and a lingering hint of cologne and crisp dryer sheets, sparse tangible evidence only hinting at all the mornings—and nights—Starsky had allowed the dog to accompany him in bed. "You're my only friend," he admitted, the buzzed thought bubbling from the depths of his mind, spilling from his mouth.

"I really hope you know that's not true."

Starsky should have been shocked by the soft statement but he wasn't. Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply, seeking comfort in Lucky, the feeling of his fur under his fingertips and the smell filling his nostrils and heart with nostalgic relief.

"There's a difference between what I feel and what I know," he said finally. Opening his eyes, he stared absently at the bricks lining the far wall of the patio, enclosing them and hiding them away from prying outside eyes all while supporting the brick floor that suspended them two stories in the air. It was mind-boggling when he thought about it—a small miraculous detail of modern ingenuity that assaulted him at the oddest of times. What would happen if the bricks crumbled? How hard would he have to throw his body against it to cause a crack? What would shatter first, the mania propelling the action, his body, or the cheerful red bricks? "You, of all people, should know that by now."

"What can we do to help that?" Hutch asked, the question intermixing with the abrasive shriek of a patio chair being pulled across the ground to rest inches away from where Lucky and Starsky sat. "There's got to be something I can do."

Squeezing his eyes shut, Starsky cringed painfully, the noise echoing relentlessly in his head. "You can't do anything," he whispered. "And, really, you've done enough."

Hanging his head, Hutch exhaled heavily, running his hands over his face. "Where were you today?" he asked quietly. "You got off hours ago. You know you can't just disappear like that. You need to tell me where you are."

"Nowhere."

"Who were you with?"

"Nobody."

"Nowhere and nobody," Hutch snorted sadly. "Sounds exactly like last week."

When Starsky finally allowed his eyes to open, he stared at the ground, counting the seconds that passed as he struggled to summon the courage to look at Hutch. But captive to the fear etched in his memory, his gaze remained frozen, fixated on rugged desolate cement floor. There had been a time when Hutch had hurt him, hadn't there been? An obscure time; a confusing time; when he had been held in the darkness and Hutch had been someone else.

If Starsky looked at Hutch now who would he find staring back at him?

"David," Hutch breathed, his voice a low desperate rumble. " _Please_ , I can't help you if you don't talk to me, and we can't move past this if we don't—"

"I'm sure you do just fine," Starsky interrupted evenly, neither able to comprehend nor contend with the hint of pain Hutch was allowing himself to expose.

"You're right," Hutch murmured guiltily. Clearing his throat, he sucked in deep breath, only speaking again after long seconds passed, his words filtering out in an exhale, "I'm fine and we're fine too. You're tired today; you knew that when you woke up and didn't want to get out of bed. I should have listen to you then, kept you home and let you ease in an out of this mood until it passed gracefully, instead of..." he paused, inhaling another taxed breath. "Well, whatever this is going to turn into, now."

There was weakness to Hutch's voice, a hint of weariness that fueled Starsky's foolish skepticism. "You're a fucking liar," he said quietly, the callous words sounding foreign on his lips, leaving him nauseated and afraid. "I know it, and you know it too. This won't ever pass. It can't. Not with the way things are now."

"Whatever you say, sweetheart." The legs of Hutch's chair groaned in protest as he stood. "I guess I'll leave you alone with your only friend," he added, the words a low mumble as he moved toward the door.

"I hope you have fun with your _best friend_ , tonight."

Grabbing the door frame, Hutch hesitated in place. "Jack's not my best friend," he said evenly, turning to assess Starsky with crisp clear eyes. "If you had a firm grip on what's happening around you, you'd know that."

"You made me this way," Starsky retaliated thickly. "And I _fucking_ hate you for it."

"Well, at least that's one truth we can both be honest about." Hutch hung his head, lifting his hand in an exasperation, his sudden sunken posture declaring a silent surrender, as he disappeared into the apartment.

Xx

Mitchell went out the alone night; though Hutch remained at Venice Place, he and Starsky didn't speak again. But it was Hutch who, when the sun dipped low in the sky and the darkness of night began to seep into the corners of the patio, took Starsky gently by the hand, leading him into the illuminated apartment and into the bedroom they shared.

When Starsky slept, he dreamed of the darkness. Hiding in the corner of a dank black basement it was surrounded by cracking concrete floors and bleeding walls. Choking on stale air, he felt long invisible fingers clench his throat, crushing his windpipe as he violently gasped for air. Razor sharp fingernails sliced into his skin, leaving deep cuts that oozed thick trails of crimson blood. The pain was intense but the panic was immeasurable.

And when Starsky finally awoke, sweat covered and screaming, it was Hutch's steady hands that were holding him down.


	37. Chapter Thirty-Seven

"I'm sorry."

Standing, motionless, in space between the where the living room ended and the kitchen began, Starsky cringed as the words tumbled from his mouth. His voice was tired, scratchy from overuse; the statement sounded more like a disgruntled growl than a genuine apology, and it prompted Hutch's shoulders to sink with anticipation, as he lingered, back turned, in front of the coffee pot on the counter.

Last night had been bad—one of the worst nights Starsky remembered having since he had begun having nights like these. Captive to an all too vivid nightmare, he had screamed and cried until his voice gave out. When Hutch had finally roused him from the dream, Starsky had come to swinging, making a few solid connections before he felt a foreign set of hands hold him back. Despair had overcome him then, a terrible agonizing panicked helplessness that left his heart pounding and forced deep desperate sobs from the bottom of his chest as he begged incoherently to be let go.

"Let him go!" Hutch demanded.

"Are you kidding?" Mitchell asked, his shocked voice equally as loud. "After the way he was going after you?!"

"Do it. Now!"

Hutch advanced on Mitchell, forcefully pulling Starsky from his grasp. A deep sob of relief escaped Starsky as he was finally released, and body shaking with a sickening mixture of adrenaline and exhaustion, he numbly sunk to the floor. Hutch and Mitchell stared at each other, each not quite sure what to do—or say—as they stepped away from each other, leaving Starsky in a heap on the floor.

"Buddy," Mitchell said, his voice laced with concern. "Please tell me you're not going to ignore what just happened here."

"You need to leave the room," Hutch said fiercely.

The danger lurking behind the tone prompted Starsky to look up, though the second he set his gaze on his husband he wanted nothing more than to look away. A thick line of blood was smeared between Hutch's lip and nose. His jaw was irritated, red and swollen beneath an oozing split lip. He was livid and exhausted, but the anger radiating from his body only hinted at a deeper, darker pain.

"I mean it, Jack," Hutch continued. "Leave. Now. Go back to bed."

Mitchell stared for a moment, his stubborn gaze refusing to waiver from Hutch's determined one, before sighing exasperatedly and striding to the door. "How many times are you going to make him do this, Cam? How loud does he have to scream before you realize he needs more help than he's asking for, and so do you."

"I'm sorry," Starsky repeated, gaze frozen on the back of Hutch's red and gray plaid shirt—an item of clothing he was convinced he had never seen before—as his husband refilled his coffee cup. "I know we aren't saying it anymore, but..." he faltered, choking on a thick inhale as Hutch finally turned around.

Starsky had known the night was bad but there was no denying the terrible truth of what he had done or the invisible line he had unconsciously crossed; the proof was clearly displayed on Hutch's face. His chin and cracked lower lip were painfully inflamed, decorated in a horrible array of purple and black bruising.

"It looks worse than it actually is," Hutch said, his words firm and clipped, as he assessed Starsky carefully, as though trying to decipher the stability of his mood. "I bruise easily, you know that."

Feeling sick and terribly small, Starsky looked away, focusing numbly on the cup clenched firmly in his husband's hand. With a stainless steel lip, the baked enamel mug was green, speckled with white dots, and chipped and rugged from overuse. One half of the pair that had been dug out of their camping gear post move to Venice Place, its presence was odd; Starsky still didn't understand why Hutch felt the need to use it day after day. Why he would choose that mug over the clean white ones kept in a neat line on the top shelf of the open cabinets of the kitchen. But their life was like that now; a mixture of new and old, fragmented and pieced together at the same time, as they both grappled for something to hold on to weather the violence of the ongoing storm. It used to be each other and now it wasn't, Starsky thought sadly—a devastating perception he didn't have the courage to admit out loud.

Somewhere between Hutch's dismissal and Starsky's return to work, something key had shifted between them and now Starsky was clinging to his anger, confusion, and grief, while Hutch clung to whatever it was that got him through the day. The basement project and a childhood best friend, two things Starsky knew he may have been able to understand the need for if his confusion didn't always insist on being quite so loud.

"It's fine, David," Hutch said. "You didn't mean to do it, and bruises heal."

"Sure," Starsky breathed, though he wondered if either statements were true. Hutch looked like he had lost a horrendous fight and Starsky had been the one to throw the punches.

How could things possibly be fine?

"Are you going to tell me what your dream was about this time?" Hutch asked.

Starsky shook his head, having long promised himself that he would never repeat things he saw or felt when he was captive to his nightmares, for fear that they may someday become a reality.

"That's what I thought," Hutch sighed, a hint of irritation to his tone. "So, I made you an appointment with Doctor Lupton for this afternoon."

"What?" Starsky asked, unnerved at the thought of how a premature visit to his department mandated psychiatrist could be misconstrued. "But I'm not required to go in again until next month!"

"I don't care. You need to talk about your meds. Something's off and it's only getting worse. You're moody and manic, and he needs to know that. It wouldn't hurt if you started talking about a few other things, either."

"I got work today."

"No, you don't."

"What did you do?" Starsky demanded, his anger spiking.

"Don't worry, nothing you can't cover up." Pulling Starsky's iPhone out of the back pocket of his jeans, Hutch tossed it on the kitchen island. "I texted Blaine, told him you had another migraine and you wouldn't make it in."

"For me or _as me_?"

"Don't even start today." Patience waning, Hutch held up a warning index finger. "Not after what happened last night because you're not going to like the things I have to say. Your appointment is at two. Can I trust you to show up and tell the truth on your own or do I have to drag you down there and do it for you?"

Hutch didn't wait for an answer. Holding his coffee cup in a white knuckle grip, he strode past Starsky and through the living room.

"I said I was sorry."

Starsky's quiet statement stopped Hutch in his tracks, but he didn't turn around. "And I said: I didn't want to hear that anymore."

Closing his eyes, Starsky was tempted to ask what Hutch did want to hear—what he could possibly say to ease the weight of the all terrible things he could never take back, or what he could do to make things a little bit better—but he couldn't work up the nerve.

Hutch's footsteps were quick and heavy as he treaded down the staircase and out of the apartment. Starsky jumped as the front door was slammed shut but refused to open his eyes, forcing himself instead to absorb the reverberation of the tense action—the only thing Hutch dare do to give a voice to his frustration and pain.

But at least Hutch had taken a break from the basement project to be available when Starsky had rolled out of bed—not that that was a surprise. Though he woke in the early morning hours, Hutch always made sure he was present in the time between Starsky awoke and departed for work. Lingering in the background, he would sip coffee, carefully watching to ensure Starsky made it out of the apartment on time. On Starsky's more difficult mornings, Hutch was more than a passive observer, quietly prompting his husband to compete necessary tasks. But they hadn't had one of those in a while.

Pouring a cup of coffee, Starsky smiled, his balance waning, as Lucky rubbed his body against his legs; a good morning greeting if he ever felt one.

"Hey, kid," Starsky whispered, crouching in front of the dog and rubbing his hands eagerly over the Dalmatian's head and neck.

"It's weird that you call him that."

Starsky hung his head, stifling a groan as Mitchell's tired voice reached his ears.

"The dog has a name, right? Why do you need to call him something else?"

Petting Lucky, Starsky didn't reply. He didn't need to justify his nickname for his beloved dog to Mitchell, and still reeling from last night, he didn't want to engage in conversation with the man who had intruded into their bedroom, tearing Hutch from his violent grasp.

But tact never had been one of Mitchell's strengths. "Boy, what a night, huh?" he laughed, seemingly unware of the fragility of the subject. Reaching for a perfect white mug, he poured himself a cup of coffee, then strode to the fridge to top off the contents with milk. "That Cam always could take a punch; it's good to see that hasn't changed."

Sighing, Starsky stood, wiping at the patches of stray dog hair clinging to his pajama bottoms.

"Why do you call him that?" He smiled as Lucky chirped excitedly, circling his legs and herding him toward the glass treat container on the far kitchen counter.

"What?"

"Why do you call Hutch, Cam?"

"That's his name."

"No, it isn't," Starsky insisted firmly. Reaching for a handful of dog treats, he pretended not to notice the clinical way Mitchell was studying him.

"Listen, Starsky," Mitchell said evenly, "I know having me here hasn't been easy on you. I know the strain it puts on you to be dealing with the shit you're going through with while having a stranger stay in your house. And it can't be easy waking up in the morning with scattered memories of what happened the night before, only to be forced to share coffee with the guy who keeps intruding in your personal space."

"It's nothing," Starsky lied, tossing a treat in the air that was promptly caught by an eager Lucky. "And I don't care that you're here."

"Except for you do; like I said: me being here wears on you, and I can't blame you for that."

"The name is wearing. It'd be nice if you called Hutch by his real fucking name once in a while."

"Hutch? Nah, that's your thing. I wouldn't want to impede."

"You're fine impeding on everything else," Starsky muttered.

"So, I do wear on you."

Tossing Lucky a final treat, Starsky shrugged.

"I know I do," Mitchell continued, his tone more matter-of-fact than challenging, his words soft but certain. "Because you and I are the only two people in this city— _hell_ , probably this world—that Cam trusts himself enough to hold on to. Before I got here it was only you, so I can see how having me suddenly show up would threaten you..."

"I am _not_ threatened by you."

"...We are the only people who know how stubborn he is, how secretive he can be. You've seen a little of that, but I've seen a lot. I grew up with him, which means I know more about him than you can ever imagine, and _that_ ," Mitchell pointed his index finger at Starsky, "is what really bothers you about me. Which leads me to what bothers me about you: if you want to know something specific about his past be direct and ask. Don't dance around the subject like some chick."

"I already did." Mitchell's words churned in Starsky's stomach like bile. He hated everything about his morning—and this moment. The night had been bad, but this day was already promising to be worse. "If you don't want to tell me why you call him Cam that's fine, but don't be an asshole about it. Don't make a big production about knowing him longer than me."

"I thought you weren't threatened."

"I'm not."

"Sure doesn't seem that way."

"Are you going to tell me about the name or not?"

"Sure." Mitchell shrugged. "Cam is short for—"

"Cameron," Starsky interjected firmly, needing to assert some kind of knowledge regarding Hutch—no matter how insignificant. "Yeah, I figured that."

"Are you telling the story or am I?" Mitchell grinned, and Starsky wondered if the man had ever taken anything seriously in his life. "When the Hutchinson twins were born, good old Dick and Emily Hutchinson were thrilled—at least to the outside eye. Imagine their excitement, a boy and a girl born on the same day meeting the quota of children they needed to keep their high society reputations intact."

Starsky grimaced as Mitchell repeated yet another detail of Hutch's life that he, himself, had only been privy to recently. He had always known Hutch had a sister but his husband never bothered to mention they were twins—not a big deal in Hutch's mind, but a gargantuan omission in Starsky's.

"The girl they named Katherine—Katie—after good old Dick's mother," Mitchell continued in a noncommittal tone. "But the boy's name they couldn't agree on. Emily want to name him Kenneth after her beloved older brother, but Dick was against it. He didn't like Emily's brother, or the wildly inappropriate extracurricular actives he was rumored to partake in from time to time. So Dick chose a different name; he wanted Cameron, not Kenneth."

"But they did name him Kenneth. That's his legal name. It's what's on his social security card, his driver's license; you pull a background check on him and that's the name that comes up."

"Are you in the habit of running background checks on your husband, Starsky?" Mitchell laughed.

"Of course not."

"Sure, you aren't. Well, as you know, Kenneth is his legal name, but nobody ever called him that. After the twins were born the name debate went on for weeks before Cam's parents finally came to an agreement. They would put one name on the birth certificate but call him something else."

"So he became Kenneth in writing..."

"And Cameron otherwise. We've known each other since we were two years old; he'll always be Cam to me. _Shit_ , I never knew him as Kenneth until..." Mitchell hesitated, a guarded expression settling on his face. "Well, maybe you ought to ask him about the rest."

But Starsky didn't have to. He knew what had happened to prompt the name change. "After his uncle did what he did," he finished quietly.

"Yeah. Cam's father never called him by the favored nickname again. Like I said, old Dick wanted Cameron, not Kenneth."

"What was his father like?" Starsky asked, the hushed words leaving his mouth before he had time to consider them.

"Before or after Cam was taken?"

"Both."

"Well," Mitchell sighed thoughtfully. "Dick never really was the touchy-feely type. He was strict but there was softness to him. He doted on Cam and Katie; he was quick to praise them when they'd done something worthy of it. He wanted them to have the best and be the best—piano lessons, tutoring to learn foreign languages, elite private schools, the whole bit. He expected a lot out of those kids, even early on. He was grooming them to be successful, high-functioning adults."

"And then?"

"And then dear Uncle Kenneth set his sights on little Cam and nothing was ever the same again. What happened tore that family apart, not just immediate but extended too. It fractured relationships in a way that can't ever be fixed. Old Dick, he couldn't deal with what Kenneth had done to his perfect little son. Being a psychologist, he knew how that kind of trauma at an early age could shape a person. He never looked at Cam the same. He was too distant and too judgmental. He kept waiting for Cam to turn into a monster, to model psychopathic tendencies or some kind of sexual deviance. And Emily," Mitchell exhaled heavily. " _Jesus_ , she was awful. Callous and cruel. She treated Cam like some dirty secret. She never did forgive him for what he had "made her" brother do. Dick was pretty bad, but she was way worse."

"That's terrible," Starsky whispered. Dealing with the aftermath of his own assault continued to be horrific, he couldn't imagine having to work through it surrounded by people who held him accountable for the things he had endured. He didn't want to think about the kind of issues or insecurities experiencing sexual trauma at such a young age could instill in a person, but it was a hard thought to ignore. There were certain covert anxieties pre-Marcus Hutch had always struggled with—difficulties that, now, somehow didn't seem to have a hold on him at all.

"I probably shouldn't have told you any of that," Mitchell said, his tone uncharacteristically serious. "Don't tell Cam, okay? I can only share his secrets with you if I know you're going to keep them."

"I will."

"And, Starsky, I know the two of you are struggling through your issues right now; I don't know the details of what happened and I don't need to. But _please_ don't do what his family did. Be careful with your anger and resentment, and don't be too upset about the truths he has to keep buried or the ones he chooses to disclose. He's not used to having people stand beside him through the hard times. He doesn't know what it's like to have someone love him for exactly who he is."

Xx

"I have to talk to you about something," Hutch had said. Sitting on the side of the bed, his eyes glistened brightly but his gaze was nomadic, traveling nervously around Starsky's sterile hospital room. "And I know this isn't the best moment to do it, but I don't have a choice."

"What?" Starsky asked. White t-shirt and pajama bottom clad, he pulled his feet to sit cross legged at the head of the bed and fiddled nervously with his hospital bracelet. Although he could stick his fingers between it and his wrist, the foreign plastic felt too tight on his skin. The edges were rough and biting, awakening a panic in his chest that refused to be ignored. They were tapering his sedation, he thought suddenly. Soon the incapacitating drugs would finally wear off and he'd be discharged and sent home.

But to what? How long would he last this time before his paranoia took over and Hutch had no choice but to admit him again?

"An old friend of mine is in the city, he's going to be living with us for a while," Hutch said.

"What?" Starsky snorted nervously. He wasn't sure Hutch had friends at all—outside of Lucas Huntley, of course—all the key people in their life had more attachment to Starsky than Hutch. "But you don't have any old friends," he whispered, biting back a panicked sob as his ID bracelet still refused to budge.

Why did they have to fasten the ID's so tightly, and why did he need a bracelet at all? He knew who he was—even if he couldn't remember anything else, he would never forget that.

"I have one old friend."

"Who?"

"Jack Mitchell."

Pulling Starsky's hand away, Hutch stuck his fingers between the ID bracelet and Starsky's wrist, pulling the offending item with his other hand. It gave way with a solid pop, and Starsky felt a rush of relief and then overwhelming dread.

"You shouldn't have done that," he said, his voice shaking with horror. "They don't like it when you do that."

"It's fine."

"But it's not. What if they don't know who I am? What if they confuse me with somebody else?"

What if they thought he was someone sicker? What if they mixed him up with somebody dead?

"That's not going to happen," Hutch soothed, smoothing his hand through Starsky's sweat-covered curls. "Everyone in this wing knows who you are by now."

"I need a haircut," Starsky said manically, his frantic thoughts shifting as Hutch's fingers highlighted yet another thing he could barely endure. Thick, hot and heavy, his hair was stifling. Claustrophobic. And the color was too dark. Near black, it reminded him of the darkness and horrible things that Hutch had done.

"But you've always liked your hair a little long." Hutch forced a smile as Starsky violently shook his head. "No, huh?" he whispered deeply. "Well, sweetheart we can get you haircut if that's what you really want to do, but I don't think it's going to help how you feel on the inside."

"Tell me about your friend," Starsky demanded, grappling for a distraction as he pushed Hutch's hand away. The touch should have felt comforting but it wasn't. Hutch's hands were somehow too warm and too cold at the same time. "The one I didn't know you had."

"His name is Jack. He's a doctor—"

"Where did he come from?"

"Las Vegas, but I knew him when I lived in Duluth."

"But you never lived in Duluth," Starsky corrected fiercely.

"Old habit."

"Old _lie_."

Lips forming a frustrated line, Hutch hung his head, forcing a series of deep inhales and exhales before looking at Starsky again. "You're right," he said tightly. "But it doesn't matter where Jack and I grew up. He was my best friend." He shrugged. "My only friend for a while."

"And now you want him to live with us?"

"Yes."

"Why would you want that?"

"It isn't about what I want. It's about what's best for us; what's best for you and me and—"

"If I'm too much for you than just say it. Don't hide behind your friend; don't use him as an excuse because you can't handle me at my worst."

"David," Hutch said evenly. "That has nothing to do with this. Don't turn this into something it isn't."

"You said he was a doctor! Why else would you want to bring him into our home?"

"Because he needs somewhere to live and we have the room. We'd do the same for Huggy, wouldn't we?"

"No," Starsky whispered, though he knew the word was a lie. Shaking his head, tears filled his eyes, streaming down his cheeks in thick wet lines.

"Don't cry, _please_." Wiping his thumbs over Starsky's tears, Hutch grimaced as his hands were once again pushed away.

"D-don't touch me," Starsky sobbed. "You know I can't h-handle you _touching me_."

"I'm sorry, but you know I'm not any good at watching you cry."

"I won't go home if he's there!"

"Then where are you going to go?"

"Somewhere." Anywhere but home.

"Lucky will sure miss you," Hutch countered quietly. "And he's already aching for you now. Poor guy hangs out by the door most of the day, waiting eagerly for you to come back."

"I'll take him with me."

"You will not," Hutch protested in a quiet teasing tone. "Venice Place is his home, wouldn't be fair for you to take him away from it. It's your home too. Yesterday you couldn't wait to come back and now you're saying you won't."

"Only because you want to bring strangers into the apartment," Starsky whispered. Tears calming, he wiped his palms across the five o'clock shadow peppering his cheeks. They hadn't let him keep his beard in here; they wouldn't let him use a razor himself when they insisted his face needed a shave, either. One hand dropped limply to his side, while the other lingered behind, picking nervously at the faded scar on his cheek. He grimaced, his fingernails pinching his skin as he pressed harder, taking solace in the stinging pain. Watching him curiously, Hutch didn't pull his hand away until he drew blood.

"You know, you and me were strangers once," Hutch said, holding Starsky's wrist a little too tight.

"I'm not so sure we aren't now."

"We can _never_ be strangers. We've shared too much to claim such a ridiculous thing now."

"What have you and your friend shared?" Starsky spat bitterly, a hint of confusion to his tone.

"Everything, and, yet, nothing at all. He's dying, you know."

"Your friend?" Starsky asked apprehensively. Finally, pulling his wrist way, he avoided Hutch's piercing gaze, setting his own on the white tiled floor. "Did he tell you that?"

"No."

"Then how do you know?"

"I just know," Hutch said eerily. "He's got a brain tumor; he'll be dead in eight months. Whatever fears you're still harboring about me will long outlive him, and so will you."


	38. Chapter Thirty-Eight

"Do you want to talk about what brought you here today?" Starsky frowned stubbornly as Doctor Lupton's predictable monotone question hung in the air.

Stuffy and reserved, Lupton had the demeanor of someone who was eternally overworked and never seemed to get enough sleep. Appearing as apathetic and disinterested as Starsky felt, he couldn't have been more contradictory of Doctor Evans if he tried as he sighed, tapping his pen against the blank form sitting on his desk.

"Not really," Starsky said evenly, his eyes locked on what could be a damning form depending on what boxes were eventually checked. Absently, he wondered if Lupton drawing attention to the document that would eventually make its way to both Ryan and Blaine was purposeful. If it wasn't some casual ploy of power, silently teasing and reminding him that anything he disclosed could and would be used against him—at least where his career was concerned.

Maybe if Doctor Lupton was more personable—or interested—he would have felt safe disclosing the truth. But their visits were mandatory and the topics of their conversations meticulously documented, along with even the smallest change to his medication regimen—yet another term Starsky had been forced to adhere to when returning to Bay City PD.

"Okay," Lupton said. "Well, maybe we should call your husband and ask him why you're here today, then maybe we'll get somewhere."

"What did he say to you?" Starsky groaned, pinching at the bridge of his nose. He had hoped that detail of who had made his appointment and why would have been quickly forgotten—or carelessly omitted—by Courtney, Lupton's flighty receptionist. "Did the two of you _actually_ have a conversation?"

"Yes."

"What did he say?"

"That you haven't been doing well."

"And?"

"There's more?"

"Of course not," Starsky lied. "And not doing well is a matter of opinion."

"And your opinion of the situation is what, exactly?"

"Why don't you tell me what _he_ told you and I'll tell you how much of _it_ is true."

"Or you can tell me what you think is wrong and _I_ can decide how much of _that_ is true."

"Nothing's wrong." Forcing a smile, Starsky rubbed his palms nervously over his thighs. "Everything's fine. More than fine. _Fantastic_."

"Really?" Lupton asked cynically. "Then tell me, Officer Starsky, why are we here? Why did your husband call this morning all-but-demanding I fit you into my already over-packed schedule?"

"I don't know." Starsky shrugged, feigning ignorance. "Maybe he's paranoid."

"He's the paranoid one." Blinking, Lupton stared at Starsky exasperatedly for a moment before shaking his head. Picking up the form, he held it at eyelevel. "Do I need to remind you that this visit has reproductions? One little check mark, Officer Starsky, that's all it'll take to put an end to your time with us. And after all the effort John Blaine put into convincing Chief Ryan to allow you back, I'm sure I don't need to tell you that if deemed unstable again, you will not be given another opportunity to return. I'm going to ask you one more time: why are we here?"

"Right," Starsky grumbled. "Well... I suppose my anxiety has been a little… much lately."

"When you say anxiety, do you mean general overall uneasiness or a sudden onset of paranoia...?"

"Uneasiness."

"Any additions to your routine since our last visit?"

"Not really."

"Not really or no?" Lupton eyed Starsky warily.

"No. Everything is pretty much the same as it was last month."

In fact, Starsky thought, maybe things had remained too unchanged. Both his professional and personal life had remained painfully stagnant, suffocating him with stifling feelings of inadequacy, fear, and furious rage.

"How are you sleeping?"

"Fine," Starsky lied.

"Really? Your husband mentioned your nightmares had intensified. I believe the words he used were vivid, night terrors —"

"I don't have them that often," Starsky interjected bitterly. How could Hutch have shared such a detail? Why would he? What did he have to gain?

"But they do affect your sleep," Lupton said matter-of-factly. The silent accusation of the question hung between them: if Starsky couldn't be truthful when asked such a small, seemingly unimportant question, what else was he concealing—or lying—about?

"If you already know then are you asking?" Starsky fumed as Hutch's earlier words rushed through his head in a fury inducing loop: _Can I trust you to tell the truth or do I have to go down there and tell it for you?_ Of course, Hutch had known when he said words that the threat—and the trust the phrase hinted at—were empty. Hutch didn't need to show up to make sure Starsky disclosed what he needed to nor did he trust him to ask for the right help. Hutch had pushed him in front of the preverbal bus and then ran him over with it—again. "Sounds like you got enough of the story. He's thinks I've been manic, did he tell you that too? Or that my anxiety is getting out of control?"

"Do you feel manic?"

"No."

"Is your anxiety becoming harder to control?"

"No!" Shutting his mouth abruptly, Starsky leaned over, resting his head heavily in his hands. "I don't know," he added after a moment, his voice calm but sad. "Sometimes, I guess it is bad. But..." he paused, exhaling heartily and scratching absently at his stubble covered cheeks. "I don't think it's all my fault. I don't think how I feel can be dismissed or conveniently explained away because of my past problems."

"What do you mean?"

"Some days I feel good. I feel _great_ even, and then, he looks at me a certain way or says something that I don't even know how to respond to, or touches me and I just... unravel. I get angry and nervous and… pissed off."

"Him, meaning your husband?"

Starsky nodded.

"Well," Lupton sighed. "That's been a reoccurring complaint from you. Prior to our first visit, I studied your psychological history and Doctor's Evans was careful to note that each of your major mental relapses occurred subsequent to you adamantly voicing concerns about your husband. Though, those were a bit more illogical. Irrational."

"I don't think like that anymore," Starsky snapped. "Not about him. Not about anybody."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course, I'm sure."

"I don't know if I believe that. Perhaps the current difficulties with your husband are nothing more than ugly marital issues coming to a head, or maybe it's something else that's determined to make itself known. Either way, these are topics best worked through with someone else. I'm neither a marital councilor nor am I specialized in helping you process any long-lasting effects of the trauma you endured. My role in your life—as with everyone else—is a very specific. Once a month, you tell me how you're doing, we touch base about your medication regimen, and I decide whether or not you are stable enough to be allowed to continue your employment. But I would be happy to refer you to someone who can help you work through some of your, apparent, lingering issues."

"I can't do that."

"Because there's nothing wrong?"

"Because you know what that would mean." Starsky nodded at the document. "We both know, if I talk to someone else then it's no longer a matter of a check mark on a simple form. I have twelve months of probation to survive; I can't be caught seeking psychiatric treatment outside of our monthly visits or Chief Ryan will kick me to the curb."

"I see," Lupton said, a hint of regret in his tone. "I would like to say that's first time I've heard someone say that to me, but I can't. It's the proverbial rock and hard place that a lot of officers struggle with after experiencing life-changing traumatic events. Do you save yourself, your family, or your career? Usually, they choose their career and it costs them everything in the end."

"Do you think that's going to happen to me?" Starsky asked quietly, though he was certain he knew what the answer would be. Of course he was destined to lose everything; the life he had known had already slipped through his fingertips.

"If I could offer you any advice, outside of the obvious, it would be this: stick with John Blaine. Trust his judgement, and do what he tells you to. He cares about you deeply; he'll make sure you're taken care of, no matter what happens in the end."

Xx

"I'm a terrible person," Starsky said. Pressing his hand to his eye sockets, he leaned heavily over the bar and groaned. "I don't know why Hutch would even want to be with me anymore—I don't even want to be with me anymore."

Eyebrows inclining, Huggy sighed exasperatedly. "This conversation is starting to sound too familiar," he grumbled, thinking of another day— and different time—when, post-Marcus, it had been Hutch sitting across the bar at The Pits voicing very similar fears when Starsky had still been hiding himself at his Aunt and Uncle's house.

"What?"

"Nothing." Huggy shook his head. Tossing a cherry in a pink and clear sparkling drink, he pushed it in front of his troubled friend.

"What is this?"

"A Shirley Temple."

"Why the hell would I want that?"

"I'm sure you don't, but you ordered a beer that I'm not going to serve you, so consider this your consolation prize."

"My whole fucking life is a consolation prize," Starsky muttered. Shoving the straw in his mouth, he ignored Huggy's eye roll. "Did Hutch tell you not to serve me?"

"He called me early this morning," Huggy confirmed. "I'm banned from giving you alcohol until, and I quote, either your moods stabilize, or you murder him in your sleep." He grinned. "If the murdering comes first and you happen to seek respite at my fine establishment after the dubious deed, then I'm to allow you to drink as much as you want until the cops show up."

"Terrific," Starsky said flatly.

"Well, I thought it was funny," Huggy chuckled. "Especially coming from Hutch. Finding the silver lining hidden in a stressful situation doesn't always come easy to him; good for him for trying to lighten the mood with a joke."

Thinking of their rough night, and the marks marring Hutch's face, Starsky grimaced. "It's a bad one."

"I said I appreciated his effort; I didn't say it was good."

"Do you want to hear a worse one?" Starsky asked, chewing absently on the end of his straw. "I told Hutch I hated him last night."

"I've heard that one before," Huggy mused. "From both of you."

"But this time was different," Starsky said, though he was unsure if he could properly explain the difference in the occasions he—or Hutch— had angrily spat the damaging phrase. Though the instances where few, the mornings following them had always been the same—trading apologies and promising kisses that always turned into something more—until now. "I can't give him what he wants, Hug. _Shit_ , I can't even give him what he needs."

"And you've asked him what he wants or needs?" Huggy asked, and Starsky shook his head. "Then what makes you think you know?"

"I don't know. In case you haven't noticed, I'm a pain the ass these days."

"Oh, we are all well aware of that."

" _Jesus_ , Hug." Holding his hands up, Starsky looked at them guiltily. Slight scrapes covered the back of his fingers, emphasized by the mild swelling of his sore knuckles. "I hit him, too."

"Was that a conscious or unconscious action?" Huggy asked, his tone painfully serious. "You're not reverting to old irrational thoughts, right? You're not having weird paranoid feelings about him, again, are you?"

"Unconscious. He was trying to wake me up and I couldn't let go of the dream I was having." Starsky shivered as the fragmented images of the nightmare came rushing back. A dark basement unlike anything he remembered and a grinding voice he recalled all too well. "I threw some punches and Mitchell stormed in and broke it up."

"How did Hutch react to that?"

"How do you think he reacted? He told him to get the hell out. But then this morning, Mitchell gets on me about not being careful enough with Hutch's feelings, like I should treat him better or something."

Of course, there were other things Mitchell had disclosed, but Starsky couldn't talk about those. He didn't want to dwell on what he didn't know about his husband, or the trauma and fractured relationships lurking in the past. Mitchell had said Hutch didn't know how to be loved unconditionally—a haunting statement, to say the least—but Starsky wasn't sure he could disagree.

Secretive and guarded, Hutch had always been a little too careful about who he allowed in his life—and what he disclosed. Endlessly protective of Starsky, Hutch had always done things on his own terms, feigning intense bravery and steadfast strength to a fault. Though there were times when Starsky saw him crumble—when tiny hints of the past had broken through—, those moments were as few as they were intense, and all-too-easily ignored by quick Hutch's insistence he was fine.

 _I'm fine, Starsk. Just tired. Or stressed out. Or hungry. Or not caffeinated enough._ Starsky shook his head; pre-Marcus, how many times had he heard those words escape his husband's mouth? How many times had he ignored his gut instinct and allowed Hutch to carefully re-bury his deepest darkest wounds?

"Sounds like a good best friend," Huggy said, and Starsky's face set in a bitter scowl. "If you think that there haven't been times when I've said to same to Hutch, or told him to quit being an asshole to you, then you're dead wrong. Sometimes good friends are the only ones brave enough to tell you the truth, that's what makes them _good friends_." He smiled, a hint of laugher in his eyes. "Now, tell me about those punches. Did Hutch's perfect jawline survive?"

"Are you kidding? Here I am telling you all this heavy shit and all you care about is the damage my hits left behind."

"It can't be any worse than the aftermath of some of your angry words, now can it?"

"It's worse," Starsky said, though he was helpless to explain how. Maybe it was because the physical assault left a mark, a gut-wrenching tangible reminder of what had been done. Harsh words were different; quickly absorbed and internalized, the pain they caused were easily dismissed—or seemingly forgotten. "If someone else would have hurt him like that, if they left marks like that, I'd want to kill them."

"What did Hutch say about it?"

"He said it was fine."

"And I'm sure it is," Huggy assured. "He'd tell you if it wasn't."

But Starsky wasn't certain Hutch would, not with the way things were now.

"He treats me like I'm broken, Hug. Everyone does. Like I'm something to be taken care of, like they're afraid that any second I'm going to fucking snap."

"You can't blame people for that." Huggy tilted his head thoughtfully, his expression sinking. "Starsky, the flips in your mental status have been worse than roller coaster, and you may not want to remember or dwell on the things you've been through, because you're trying to move forward, but that doesn't mean they're easy for the people around you to forget. In two years, you have gone from completely unstable to paranoid and irrational to seemingly stable again, and then back to irrational and paranoid. And the last time you experienced stability like this, I'm sorry to say, it didn't last very long. Being forced to watch you slowly lose your grip on reality was devastating; you can't fault the people around you for wanting to protect you a little."

"But this time _is_ different," Starsky insisted.

"Not from where I'm sitting," Huggy said sadly. "And you can't fault Hutch for treating you too gently. _Christ_ , Starsky, there was a time when you wouldn't even look at him, let alone live with him. He's still figuring out when he can push you and when he needs to leave you alone. When he can hold you accountable or when he needs to let it go. You can't deny how hard this has been on him. We all watched you fall apart after his dismissal, but he was the one who lived it with you. He's the one who had to make the tough choices about what to do for you when your paranoia took over and things got really bad."

"But he doesn't fight with me anymore. He doesn't push back like he did before; he just gets mad, gives up, and walks away."

"And you're afraid that one of these days he'll keep walking."

"I would."

" _Jesus_ ," Huggy sighed. "Do you want to know what I think? I think that all your insecurities in your relationship don't have anything to do with Hutch, at all, because, despite everything that's happened, he's _still_ _here;_ he's not going anywhere and deep down you know that. And that's why he's become an easy target for your anger and frustration. You take your fear out on him because you know he'll take it and because, when it comes down to it, the person you're most unhappy with is yourself. You're too afraid to accept the fact that maybe the person who's changed the most in the past few years, is you."

"Ouch, Hug."

"Sorry, man, I'm just being honest with you. It may not always be pretty, but at least you know I'll always tell it to you straight."

"Well, rumor has it, that's what makes you my best friend," Starsky said, repeating Huggy's earlier reasoning with small smile.

Xx

"Davy," Uncle Al had said, his worried voice muffled as he stood outside of the master bathroom door. "Come out and talk to me."

Barefoot and boxer short clad, Starsky stood, frozen in place, inches from the door. Hearing his uncle repeat the calm plea, he inhaled sharply, cringing in a pained manner and squeezing his hands into nervous fists as his sides.

"Unlock the door, kiddo."

"No," Starsky whispered, his voice too low to be heard. He couldn't do that; he wouldn't do that, not without knowing what was still lingering outside, hiding in the darkness of the bedroom.

Something had been there—he was certain of it. Waking him out of a deep, drug induced sleep in the dead of night, he had felt a coldness touch his skin as goosebumps prickled his body and terror filled his chest. His eyes snapped open to find Hutch's side of the bed empty and the bright night light—always shining predominately, filling the room with a comforting, warm glow— off. The room was too dark to see anything, but he had known something was there. He had felt it, an all-too-familiar stifling evil presence, and heart pounding fitfully in his chest, he was overcome by a desperate need to hide.

Grabbing the comforter frantically, he sprung from the bed, locking himself behind the bathroom door. Seeking respite in the brightness of the recessed lighting lining the ceiling of room, he had sunk helplessly to the cold tile floor, sobbing as an agonizing thought assaulted him—a terrifying truth he had known since the day Hutch had miraculously reappeared—Hutch was gone, but something else had taken his place.

"Come on, Davy," Al prompted.

"Who's with you?" Starsky demanded weakly.

"Nobody."

"Are you lying?"

"When have I ever lied to you?"

Hard pressed to contradict Al's question, Starsky asked his own. "Where's Hutch?"

"He thought it would be easier for you to come out if he wasn't here. He left with Lucky; they'll be back in a few hours."

"Did the two of you talk about me?"

"No."

"He lies, you know. Whatever he told you isn't true."

"I tell you what, kiddo, you open the door and then you can tell me what the truth is."

"I can't," Starsky admitted thickly. "You won't believe me."

"I'll believe you," Al assured. "When have I ever not believed what you had to say? Please, David, open the door."

Forehead resting heavily against the door, Starsky clutched the doorknob firmly. It felt odd in his hand, solid, weighted, and warm. He wanted to recoil anxiously, tear his hand away and calm himself under the spray of another hot shower. But he couldn't do that. Not with his worried uncle on the other side of the door. Not without knowing what Hutch disclosed to coerce Al away from his busy car lot and into the claustrophobic confines of their bedroom.

Forcing a deep, shaky breath, Starsky reached for the lock on the door. The latch ground against itself, filling his head with an echoing creak as he turned it, and long—agonizing—seconds passed before Al finally opened the door.

"Hey, kiddo," Al whispered gently, his familiar face illuminated by the afternoon sun streaming through the bedroom window. Struggling to conceal his concern, he forced a smile. "Ken said you've been locked in there since the middle of the night. What's going on?"

Pressing his lips together, Starsky shrugged. He didn't have the right words to tell his uncle what he had felt or the truth he believed so fervently. "Is Hutch really gone?" he asked, his anxious eyes tracking the darkened corners of the room.

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course, I'm sure. I watched him leave. Are you going to tell me what this is all about?" Al's brow puckered worriedly as Starsky refused to look at him, instead, dropping to gaze to stare aimlessly at the floor, his eyes clouded with confusion and fear. "Still not gonna spill, huh?" Al asked softly. "Well, that's alright. How about we get you out of here and into some clothes? That way you can be ready for things when Ken gets back."

Ushering Starsky out of the bathroom, Al pushed him to sit on the edge of the bed, then took a step back, planting his hand on his hips as he looked thoughtfully around the room—not searching for clothes for his scattered nephew, rather the right words to say.

"Ken did a pretty good job on this place." Al nodded approvingly. "You can't even tell what mess it used to be. You know, when he first showed me the listing, I thought he was nuts. Why would he want sell the house you guys were living in for this dump? He said he liked projects and challenges, but I knew the truth. I could see it in the stubborn glint in his eyes. The kid wants what he wants; he doesn't care how much work he'll have to put into it, or what anyone else sees." Tilting his head, Al smiled. "He's a lot like you in that way."

"He's nothing like me," Starsky whispered numbly. "Not anymore."

Al flinched, grinding his jaw then clearing his throat to combat a wave of sudden tears. "You know that your aunt and I love you," he said, his deep voice uncharacteristically weak, cracking under the strain of the moment. Crouching in front of Starsky, he gripped his knees, squeezing comfortingly as he struggled to catch his nephew's wandering gaze. "I love you so _damn_ much, kiddo. I'm so sorry things are going the way they are, but locking yourself in the bathroom for hours because your nightlight burned out or harboring paranoid feelings against Ken—the man you love more than anybody—isn't normal."

"But it's the truth," Starsky whispered thickly, his soft voice wavering but insistent. "Why can't any of you believe that? Why am I the only one that can _see_ what's going on?"

"You're confused."

"I'm _not_ confused!" Eyes filling with frustrated tears, Starsky pointed helplessly at the empty doorway. "That… that _thing_ is not Hutch."

Uncle Al had promised to believe him but he didn't, and neither would anyone else. A painful feeling of desolation overwhelmed Starsky, crippling him with panic and dread.

"David—"

"It's an imposter!"

"David, there is only one Hutch, and right now, he's doing his best to help you."

"It doesn't help. Don't you see that? It can't, and it won't. It doesn't want to. Which is why you can't let it come back. Terrible things are going to happen if it does."

"To you or Ken?" Al asked sadly.

"It'll hurt me first, then him but only after it pushes me too far."

Xx

The aroma of hot pizza filled Starsky's nostrils when he walked through the front door.

"I'm home," he said, repeating same greeting he always did when returning home. The words were firm but automatic. A warning that escaped his mouth before he time to consider it—or say anything else.

If he was home, Hutch never responded to the statement, but someone else always did.

Smiling, Starsky heard the telltale sound of Lucky's nails rapidly clicking against the hardwood floor, and jogging swiftly up the staircase and down the hallway he met the dog in the entry to the living room.

"Hey," Starsky said playfully, crouching to great the Dalmatian with a few purposeful scratches. "How was your day, huh? Was it a good one?"

The dog didn't answer—not that Starsky expected him to—but the joy in Lucky's eyes, the way he pushed his body happily against Starsky, licking the backs of his hands gratefully, was answer enough.

"How about your day?" Hutch asked suddenly.

Startled by the question, Starsky's head snapped up, his eyes tracking the living room anxiously.

Standing behind the sectional, Hutch smiled. Freshly showered, his wet hair glistened under the ambient lighting, offsetting the worn gray material of his worn A's t-shirt. Arms crossed, he assessed Starsky, peacefully waiting for a reply.

Fingers still buried in Lucky's fur, Starsky was too shocked to utter a word. The terrible bruising that had marred Hutch's face that morning was nearly gone; his split lip was scabbed over and nearly gone and the discoloration lining his cheek and jaw had faded to the slightest hint of yellow. Mouth agape, Starsky lost his balance, falling on his butt with a thud.

What he was seeing was impossible, but somehow it was real.

"I love you like crazy, baby," Hutch grumbled lightheartedly, remaining unaffected by Starsky's shocked response. "Please tell me you had a better day."

"Uh," Starsky breathed dumbly. "I-it was okay."

"Just okay?"

"Uh, huh."

Starsky looked away from Hutch, blinking rapidly before looking at him once again, hoping that he would see the damage that he seen that morning. But Hutch's face remained the same, somehow miraculously healed.

Miraculously healed or the way it had always looked? The haunting question rushed through Starsky's mind. Maybe the injuries hadn't been as bad as he had originally thought; maybe, guilt-ridden, he had imagined their intensity that morning. But the explanation wasn't comforting, nor was the icy fear gathering in the pit of his stomach.

He wasn't imagining things, again—he couldn't be.

"Are you going to get up or spend the night on the floor?" Hutch joked. "I ordered pizza for dinner."

Closing his eyes, Starsky forced a deep breath, willing his anxiety to ebb. "Why?" he asked. Always striving for a staunchly healthy lifestyle, Hutch never ordered pizza on a weeknight—at least not voluntarily.

"Because I was an asshole this morning, and because, maybe, I'm little sorry, too." Bare feet padding lightly against the floor, Hutch strode to stand inches in front of Starsky. "Last night was rough," he added deeply, offering him his extended hands. "Things shouldn't have gone the way they did, but I talked to Jack today, he won't be barging in like that again."

"I talked to Jack, too," Starsky said. Staring intently at Hutch's hands, he couldn't bring himself to accept the help, for fear of what other panicked feelings the close contact might suddenly trigger. "I'm good," he mumbled, keeping his gaze locked on Lucky as he pressed his hands to the floor and finally stood.

Hutch smiled, his brows narrowing with confusion. "You talked to Jack about last night?"

"No. About other stuff."

"Good stuff, I hope."

"Okay stuff, I guess. Mostly you."

"Me?" Hutch laughed, ushering Starsky to sit at the kitchen island in front of an oversized pizza box. "I'm incredibly boring. Why would you want to talk about me?"

Except for you're not, Starsky wanted to say. With all your secrets and your propensity not to tell the whole truth.

"He told me about your name."

"My name?"

"Cam."

"Root beer or iced tea?" Hutch asked causally, standing in front of the open refrigerator door.

"What?"

Hutch's determination to ignore the seriousness of the topic was infuriating—as was his nonchalant demeanor. Didn't he care that Mitchell dared disclose the secrets he had carefully guarded for so many years?

"What do you want to drink?"

"Nothing!"

Rolling his eyes, Hutch grabbed a can of root beer. "I'm not doing this with you again, David," he said, opening the can and placing in front of Starsky. "You want to be mad at me then you're going have to pick another room to do it in, because I'm not going to listen to it tonight."

"I'm not leaving," Starsky said stubbornly.

"Well, neither am I," Hutch countered calmly. "So either change your attitude or eat silently."

"Don't tell me what to do."

"Then don't be an asshole to me when I'm trying to be nice to you."

Face contorting, Starsky felt a rush of guilt. The change in Hutch's injuries had left him feeling unsettled, off-center, but what was he really angry about? Hutch divulging his erratic behavior, undermining his careful relationship with Doctor Lupton or Mitchell disclosing Hutch's secrets.

"I don't like when you don't trust me to do things," Starsky admitted tersely.

"I don't like not trusting you to do things."

"And I don't like hearing shitty details about your childhood from someone else."

"Then don't ask someone else."

Hutch shrugged noncommittally, prompting Starsky to grapple with his anger again. _Don't ask someone else_. The simple statement implied that topic was something that could be easily brought up and causally explored—as though Hutch's previous obstinate avoidance of his past had never existed, as though he had never lied to cover it up.

"Anything you want to ask Jack, you can ask me," Hutch continued. "It's just as easy to talk to me as it is him."

"When?" Starsky challenged. "When has it _ever_ been easy to talk to you about that?"

"Well, I don't know because you never tried."

"This isn't my fault," Starsky fumed. "Don't flip this on me and tell me it's my fault that I don't know the truth!"

"I'm not saying it's your fault. I'm only saying that we wouldn't know what that conversation looks like because we've never had it."

"Yeah. Because of _you_."

"What do you want, sweetheart?" Hutch asked calmly. "What are you trying accomplish with this conversation? You want a fight? I already told you I'm not going to give you one. So what do you want to do, huh? Do you want to tell me you hate me or punch me again? Is that going to make you feel better?"

"No."

"Then what do you want?"

"The truth."

"About the name?"

"About why you never told _me_ about the name."

For a moment, Hutch looked perplexed. Confused as to why Starsky would want to know such a thing. Leaning over the island, he grabbed the can of root beer, thoughtfully taking a series of drinks.

"Never told you about the name for the same reason you never told me about what happed with your mother," he said, his words taunting as his eyes gleamed with a, sudden, ill-repressed joy. "It didn't belong to me anymore."

Inhaling sharply, Starsky held his breath, frantically trying to comprehend the words that had been said. The statement itself was as troublesome as the lack of bruising on Hutch's face, but not nearly as unnerving as the panic rushing through him. A full body warning that filled him with nausea inducing dread, sending a nervous chills through his extremities and leaving his heart feeling as though it might pound out of his chest.

Everything about his moment was wrong—it _couldn't_ possibly be.

He _never_ spoke about his mother, how bad things gotten after his father's death, how CPS had eventually removed him and his younger brother, Nicky, from her mother's care, or how, after spending two years in intensive treatment, Rachel Starsky had done everything in her power to regain custody of Nicky but hadn't wanted Starsky. She had refused to allow him to come back home.

Starsky didn't want to talk about or unearth ancient memories and the pain connected to some of the most defining events of his childhood. He had never told Hutch the truth about his mother; there was no way he could have known.


	39. Chapter Thirty-Nine

Sleeping fitfully, Starsky woke early.

Rising before Hutch for the first time in recent memory, he wandered around the living area and kitchen—with Lucky close on his heels—sipping strong black coffee, waiting anxiously for the sun to creep up in the sky and chase away the dark uncertainty of the night. His thoughts were burdened with worry and he struggled to distinguish between the things he knew and what he felt. But Hutch's haunting statements about his mother and the absence of his injuries still weighed heavily on heart.

Had Hutch's injuries inexplicably faded or had he imagined their significance? And what about the unsettling things Hutch had said, had he imagined those too? Not the words, of course, but the tones and inflections, Hutch's body language and the off-putting gleam in his eyes.

Despite Hutch's insistence otherwise, they had fought—again—last night, bitterly and with abandon. Eyes shining, voice even and calm, Hutch had called Starsky unstable and handful of other heart-wrenching things too painful to commit to memory. It seemed that even if Hutch didn't know how to love then he definitely knew how to wound.

But so did Starsky.

Anxiety overwhelming him, his tone seeping with hatred and disgust, Starsky had called Hutch a fraud, a shadow of a person who was too damaged for someone to truly love. But Hutch had grinned spitefully, uttering the most honest accusation of all: _it takes one to know one._ And with that, the conversation had ended, leaving Hutch's face hardened with defeat, Starsky staring tearfully at the floor, and Lucky looking nervously between them.

This was the going to be the end of them, Starsky was assaulted by the sudden, certain thought. Whatever was still tethering them together was wearing thin and threatening to snap; nothing about their current situation was sustainable.

Illuminated by the nightlight, Hutch lay motionless in their bed as Starsky gathered his uniform from the closet, dressing in the spare bathroom, and leaving the apartment with little sound.

The early morning air was chilly and biting. He shivered, wrapping his arms tightly around himself as he strode behind their building toward the small parking lot housing their vehicles. He set his eyes on the yellow Camaro, familiar and welcoming in the early morning light, and something less so, Hutch's brand-new black pickup truck.

The truck's appearance had been startling, evocatively inconsistent with Hutch's previous ceaseless—almost infuriating— preoccupation with the environment and frugality. Hutch had offered little explanation for the expensive vehicle, citing he needed it for the basement remodel. As with most everything else, Starsky tried not to spend much time contemplating the truth of his husband's empty words—Who buys a brand new truck to haul renovation supplies certain to scratch and damage the truck bed? A less expensive, smaller pick-up could have done the same job and been more suited to Hutch's supposed preferences.—for fear he wouldn't like the conclusions that the thought process would lead him make.

Glancing at the back of the apartment building, the rear-entrance to the basement stopped Starsky in his tracks. Dented and windowless, it was lined with deadbolts, the knobs of which were on the exterior, rather than interior. He had seen the steel door before but had never taken the time to look at it, to consider its purpose or the things it could keep safely hidden away. Brows furrowing, he moved toward the door, preoccupied with a sudden troublesome thought.

Why would Hutch lock the basement from the outside? Was he trying to keep someone out or something in?

Heartbeat pounding in his ears, Starsky watched numbly as his fingers touched the knob of the top deadbolt. Moving as though disjointed from the rest of his body, they caressed the cold medal before gripping it tight.

 _He could just unlock it_ , a quiet voice hissed in his head; _it would be so easy._ He could unlock this deadbolt, then next one, and then the one after that. He could turn all the knobs, unlocking the door and granting freedom to whatever lingered in its deep, dark depths.

The locks made solid clinking sounds as they were turned, but fingers gripping the final deadbolt the only sound Starsky heard was the sound of his breath. Exiting his chest in taxed, panicked gulps it left him feeling lightheaded and his brain buzzing with questions he was so close to obtaining the answers to.

What was down there? Why didn't Hutch want anyone to know was it was?

What horrible secret was lurking in the dark bowels of their apartment building?

Dread and helplessness overwhelmed him as the final lock clicked open; the door exhaled a guttural groan as it crept slightly open, as though warning him of the terrible things to come, pleading that he click the protective deadbolts back into place and continue on with the day as though he hadn't noticed the locks or the door.

But he had come too far to turn back now.

Crumbling and decrepit, the stairwell was impossibly dark; an almost solid blackness occupied the area beyond the first step, filling it with a tangible sense of destitution and agony, trepidation and oppression. Yet, the darkness was familiar. Comforting. Reaching out, it enveloped Starsky's body and he felt his dread shift, transforming into an odd sense of acceptance.

There was no stopping now, no going forward or back.

Arms hanging limply at his sides, he finally felt the warmth of the rising sun; it renewed his certainty and awakened his determination. It all seemed so simple, so right, somehow. He couldn't go back—not with Hutch and not alone—but all he needed to do was to muster enough strength to take the first step. To be brave enough to enter the stairwell and allow the darkness to engulf him.

"What the _hell_ are you doing?" Hutch exclaimed, his voice frantic as he grasped the back of Starsky's gun belt, jolting him backwards abruptly and preventing his hovering foot from connecting with the stairwell. "I told you to say out of there! You hate the dark. Why the _fuck_ would you even open the door?"

Starsky stared dumbly as Hutch slammed the door shut, snapping the deadbolts aggressively back into place.

"I don't know," he whispered, shaking his head to clear the fogginess of his thoughts as the last lock as secured. "I didn't..." The sentence died on his lips, his calm acceptance fading as he looked at Hutch's wide eyes. They were sparking with an intense emotion he hadn't displayed in so long: fear.

Hutch was afraid but of what?

Lips forming a straight line, Hutch looked away, grinding his jaw firmly for a few seconds before grasping Starsky's forearm a little too tight. "You're going to be late," he hissed, pulling him in the direction of the parked Camaro and pick-up truck and away from the allure of the basement.

Xx

"You okay?" Whitley asked, for the fifth time in what seemed like ten minutes. Weaving expertly through traffic, he looked at Starsky out of the corner of his eyes. "You seem off today. You have another fight with your chick?"

Eyes hidden beneath dark sunglasses, Starsky sighed, slouching further in the passenger seat of the squad car and absently kicking his feet against the floor. "I thought I told you that I didn't have a chick."

"Right. Did you have another fight with your girl, then?"

"No." Crossing his arms, Starsky scowled. "I don't have a girl."

"So you've decided to disown her," Whitley laughed. "I've had fights like those before too. Usually blows over in a few days."

" _Jesus_! Will you just drop it? What do you care about my life, anyway?"

"Hey, we're partners, I care."

"Yeah, right."

"What was it? Another rough morning?" Whitley pressed.

"More like rough year," Starsky muttered softly, turning his gaze out the passenger window and signaling the end of their conversation. He was neither in the mood to engage in small talk, nor willing to disclose details of his marriage or the nocuous issues he and Hutch both seemed intent on allowing to fester. He was too preoccupied with strangeness surrounding the basement—the odd, almost overpowering, pull he had felt to enter the dark space—and Hutch's abrupt appearance. His timing was impeccable—peculiar—it was almost as though he had known Starsky had opened the door.

 _"_ _Any central unit,"_ an assertive voice crackled through their radio, startling Starsky from his thoughts. " _Possible187 reported behind 973 South Central. Code 2."_

"That's a few blocks away," Starsky said, reaching for the receiver.

"Ah, skip it. Someone else will get it."

"We'll get it," Starsky growled, holding the receiver inches from his mouth. Clearing his throat, he pressed the side button and replied, "Zebra— _uh_ —"He grimaced, struggling to reconcile old habits with new developments. _Zebra Three_ , their old moniker—another thing he and Hutch had once shared—lingered in this thoughts and on the tip of his tone a second too long, eliciting a surge of grief that threatened to persist. "One-Adam-Eight we are responding."

"Blaine's gonna be pissed," Whitley warned.

"Why should Blaine care? We're answering a call and doing our job."

"187," Whitley said matter-of-factly. "That's a dead body."

"So?"

"So, Blaine said to keep you away from that kind of stuff for a while."

"He said _what_?"

"To keep you away from small spaces, anything overly bloody, or dead. Stuff that might trigger you—"

"You have to be _fucking_ kidding me!"

"Sorry, man." Whitley shrugged. "I thought you knew. Shit, he made a big production of me knowing. Called me into his office, shut the door, and acted like it was some kind of covert OP, being partnered with you."

"Why would he do that?"

Scandalized, Starsky didn't know what was worse: the thought of Blaine and Whitley discussing him—what had happened, what he had endured—behind his back, or Blaine believing—like everyone else—that he could no longer handle the more foul details of being a police officer.

"Isn't it obvious?"

"No."

"He's protective of you. He wants to ease you back in, keep you on track, so that, eventually, you'll be able get back everything that was torn away."

Xx

"It's back there," the shaggy haired propitiator of the Depot Bar said, pointing to a dark, decrepit alley behind the decaying building. "Trisha was taking the trash out a little bit ago, she wasn't gone more than five minutes before she came running back into the bar, screaming and crying like I have never heard nobody do before. She said that something horrible had happened back there, then locked herself in the back office, and started wailing like she ain't never gonna stop."

"Where's she now?" Whitley asked. "We'd like to talk to her."

"Oh, she's still in the office, crying her heart out. If you boys can get her out I'd like to talk to her too. Send her home for the day." The man grimaced. "Maybe even the rest of the week."

"Did you look at what she saw?" Starsky asked. Eyeing the alley, his face set in a grim expression and an icy chill slithered up his spine. He shouldn't be here; there was no predicting the terrible things lurking beyond the sun covered sidewalk, hiding in the almost unnatural darkness of the dilapidated pathway behind the building.

"You're joking, right?" The man snorted. "Trisha's a tough gal, the best bartender I got. Nothing phases her and she sure as shit don't ever cry. Her reaction's enough for me to know that whatever's laying back there, I don't ever want to see."

"Right," Whitley said. Looking at Starsky, he nodded toward the bar entrance. "Why don't you see if you can talk Trisha out of the office and I'll go see what we're dealing with?"

"You take the girl," Starsky said firmly. "I'll take the alley."

 _And whatever horrible things are lurking back there_ —the foreboding thought assaulted him— _in the musty, rancid, deep dark._

Tough Trisha had dissolved into tears, what would it influence him do?

"You sure?" Whitley asked.

"Sure, I'm sure," Starsky said, striding purposefully toward the narrow alleyway. He had to go forward because he couldn't go back. He had to take the first step. He would show them he could still handle a crime scene and stomach the vicious, unsightly situations accompanying the career—and life—he had chosen.

Whitley, Blaine, and Hutch, he'd show them all what he was made of, how dauntless he could still be.

Xx

"I don't want to be afraid of you," Starsky had said, his face contorting sadly as he watched Hutch through the closed sliding screen-door leading to the patio. "I don't know why things are falling apart again. I don't know what changed between us. But I don't want things to be a bad as they are."

Sitting stiffly at the patio set, his legs crossed, his spine elongated, displaying a foreign attentiveness to his posture, Hutch didn't answer, and for a moment, Starsky was grateful. It easier this way, if Hutch didn't speak. If instead of filling the night air with haunting, stomach churning dialogue, he sat outside, sipped a beer, slipped his fingers between the open buttons on the top of his flannel shirt and caressed his chest thoughtfully.

But feeling Lucky's rigid body lean protectively against his legs and hearing the dog's low, dangerous warning growl as they both watched Hutch carefully through the contrived protection of a screen door, Starsky was once again reminded that this was not an idyllic night.

Hutch neither drank on the patio anymore, nor did he display unconscious behaviors hinting at any weakness. He was calm—always _so calm_ — but his words had become daggers. Easily released and properly aimed with the intent on popping the small bubble of certainty Starsky struggled to hold on to. He didn't want to think Hutch was monster, but Hutch seemed intent on ensuring he knew the truth.

Lucky's growling intensified and eyes glistening with satisfaction under the moonlight, Hutch's lips curled into a wide grin. "Stop," he said, his low voice firm and deep.

Releasing a single sharp yelp, Lucky quieted. Sitting helplessly on the floor, he gazed up at Starsky, his dark frightened eyes seemingly screaming a silent question: what are we going to do?

But Starsky didn't know what to do—how to soothe Lucky's worry or his own.

"You know," Hutch said. "You see what is in front of you, yet you remain as avoidant as you have ever been."

"Hutch," Starsky whispered weakly. He was so close to breaking down—speaking damaging accusations, screaming unhinged theories about the man sitting on the porch to anyone would listen. His words would be incriminating and impossible to take back; if he told the truth of who or what the man living his house really was, it would forever impact the rest of his life. How people saw him; how he saw himself. He wasn't crazy like his mother; he refused to allow himself to become like her. "Please don't do this again," he added helplessly. "I want to get better. I-I want us to get better. But that's not going to happen if you talk to me like this _tonight_."

"This will not get better," Hutch said.

"How do you know? How can you sit there and say that to me?"

"It is not what fate wants."

"No," Starsky sobbed. Hutch's chilling statement echoed in his head and he fought the urge to curl up on the floor. What did Hutch know about fate, and why were his words so matter-of-fact? How was he so certain of things that no one else seemed to know? What Starsky was thinking; the worrisome—irrational—emotions had neither been disclosed nor discussed.

"You know," Hutch assured. "You just refuse to believe the truth."

" _Hutch_." This wasn't real—it couldn't be—Starsky was dreaming, stuck in some horrible nightmare of which he was certain to wake up.

"You hold on to your fear like it means something. As though fearing me and us—how we ended up here and why—will prevent you from having to explain the truth of how you feel. You are not afraid of me. You are afraid of yourself, and how predictable and generic your pain has become."

" _Hutch_." Starsky flinched, repeating the name as though it would prompt his lover to suddenly remember who he was. As though it would somehow allow Starsky to do the same. "Hutch."

"Your instability will be dismissed because of the traumatizing events in the past. Your frustration and grief is expected because of what happened to you. You are not as strong as you want to be; you will never be as fearless as you want others to believe you are."

"That's not true."

"It is."

"It's _not_."

"You were taken, held in the dark, brutalized and violated, but your pain is not unique, and you are not nearly as strong as you want to be. In your confusion, you have allowed yourself to become the one thing you were determined not to be: a victim."

"Is that how you see me?"

"It does not matter how I see you."

"How can it _not_ matter?"

"I am not the one preventing you from recovering. I am not the one who holds you back or pushes you down."

"Who _are_ you?" Starsky demanded weakly, closing his eyes against the pull of brutal memories threatening to overwhelm him. The entity in the darkness that tortured him ruthlessly at the Marcus compound—the things it had known and what it had done—and Marcus's calm, inquisitive demeanor—his detachment from the consequences of the events that had unfolded around him.

Hutch had left, disappeared for weeks, but who—or what—had come back?

But Starsky realized he already knew the truth, an irrefutable fact that was only reinforced by Hutch's indifferent tone and sparking eyes. Deep and dark, the foreign blue hue told Starsky everything he didn't want to know.

"You know who I am." Intent, penetrating and sinister, Hutch's sparkling eyes taunted him with everything that had happened and the depravity that was to yet to come. "You see me as clear as you ever have, but you are not yet ready to accept what you see or the truth of what you know."

Xx

Stepping from the sidewalk into the alley, Starsky felt a coldness touch his body, peppering his skin with goosebumps and filling his chest with an icy fear. _He shouldn't be back here_ —he thought helplessly— _whatever was hiding in here was not meant to be seen_.

The afternoon sun, hanging high in the sky, warming the sidewalk and the faces of the buildings lining the street, seemed to be unwelcome in this linear space. In the decrepit area contained by the crumbling, antique exterior walls of the neighboring businesses there was no hint of the sun—or the beautiful day that seemed to stop at the entrance of the alley. Looking up, Starsky found the sky obscured, hidden by a reflective, fluid blackness. Exclusive and impenetrable, it seemed to be choosing to hang forebodingly over the particular area at this specific time.

The air was heavy and foul, soured by horrific things that shouldn't exist. Some Starsky could define—pain, white-hot and searing as foreign objects where thrust through skin, ripping and tearing, leaving bloody shreds and gaping holes behind; helplessness, frantic and terror-filled pleas for help that would never come; and despair, weighted, stifling, and paralyzing, it threatened to silence good intentions, consuming all initiative in its debilitating depths—while others were too terrible to understand, too frightening to draw attention to.

 _He couldn't see in front of him_ , he thought torpidly. _It was too dark, and he had no idea where he was going or how to go back._ The sky was too black, the air too stifling to allow such a customary thing. Lined with liquid-filled potholes and scattered objects, the ground was uneven and slippery. He felt his feet slide dubiously as each jagged step swayed his body, bringing him dangerously close to falling into the devastating uncertainty of the unknown.

But, still, he put one foot in front of the other, forcing himself to go forward because he knew he couldn't go back.

Inhuman voices filled his head. Hushed, gritty and elongated, their words where indecipherable as haunting whispers overlapped, negating whatever messages they were intent on sharing. But the emotions remained, filling Starsky with fear and dread, incompetence and vulnerability.

 _He couldn't go on like this_ , he thought manically. _He didn't want to go forward, so there had to come a point where he could summon the courage to turn around._

But his feet continued on. He couldn't go back. They could never go back.

"And what would you do if you could?" a voice suddenly asked, rising above the disembodied whispers and freezing Starsky in place. Gentle and feminine, it was familiar, but the question was odd. "Do you want to know what I would do if I could go back?"

"No," Starsky whispered. Turning in place, he squinted, his eyes barely deciphering the fragmented figure standing paces in front of him. Her presence was as unwelcome as it was unsurprising. After all, he was surrounded by darkness and it always had a way of drudging up the past. "I don't want to talk to you."

"Why?" Starsky's mother smiled, her teeth stained, misshapen, and sharp. Her skin was gray and discolored, yellowing and rotting, wrinkled on her too-thin frame. But her eyes were clear, offsetting the darkness with an evil gleam. "Because I don't belong to you anymore?"

"You know why."

"Maybe you should ask yourself who you really belong to, David. Why he's holding on to you and why."

"You're not real," Starsky said, his voice even and firm—despite the pounding of his heart and the crippling helplessness creeping through his body. Beginning in his feet, it left him immobile, —frozen in front of what was once his greatest fear—traveling through his legs, it enveloped his torso and chest, before seeping into his arms and neck, awakening a horrific throbbing in his head. "This isn't real."

"Oh, sweetheart," his mother laughed, and Starsky flinched at the nickname, the prevalent endearment she had called him since the day he was born. "You have no idea what is real or what is to come. You are so intent on walking the path in front of you but how are you going to go forward if you don't know where you're headed? How can you get past this, if you can't move?"

Starsky groaned as she pressed her palms to his chest. The pain was immeasurable as a searing flame rushed through him; he could feel his skin blistering as his nostrils were filled with the stench of singed clothing and burning flesh. Blackened and withered, he could feel his skin flake off his body only to be trapped by the confines of his uniform.

"You have no idea what he has done," his mother whispered maliciously. "What your love for him has led him to do."

Starsky gasped as she pushed him, her small hands knocking him off his feet. Arms trapped at his sides, he felt himself falling for minutes before he hit ground. Head richening off of the concrete, he opened his eyes to find the alley transformed. The sun beat down on him, its rays highlighting the industrial sized trash can and the body in front of him. Laying naked, bloody, sliced, and battered, the man's wide clouded eyes were open, staring into Starsky's own as though they were old friends. Suddenly, his ears were assaulted by the sound of someone crying. No, not crying, _screaming_. Deep-chested, panicked, and shrill the sound filled the alleyway.

It wasn't until he felt John Blaine pulled him into his strong arms and his eyes set on Whitley's forlorn expression that Starsky realized that the screaming was coming from his own mouth.


	40. Chapter Forty

" _Please_ , John," Starsky whispered.

Sitting in the passenger seat of John Blaine's dark sedan, he cringed, first because of the pleading note in his tone, then over the incessant pounding in his head. The collar of his uniform was soaked, saturated from the blood spilling from wound hidden by the thickness of his hair. He had fallen to the ground hard, slicing the side of his head on a sharp object laying in front of the dead body.

It was probably the murder weapon. Starsky grimaced painfully, forcing himself ignore the worry attached to the thought. Being cut by a jagged object covered with someone else's dried blood awakened more concerns than he could think about right now, as his immediate worry was an ER visit and the incriminating documentation attached to such a thing.

Collecting Starsky from the ground, Blaine had moved quickly. Pulling him from the alleyway, he deposited Starsky in his vehicle, all while shouting at Whitley to remain at the scene, request a back-up unit and forensics team, and, _"For Christ sakes, Whitley, keep your fucking mouth shut about what happened with Officer Starsky!"_

"Don't make me go in there," Starsky continued, his dull gaze frozen on the ER's sliding glass doors. He had enough memories of hospitals, sterile suites, white-jacketed doctors, and sad, pity-filled smiles to last him the rest of his life.

"David," Blaine sighed, a full-bodied sound that only hinted at the man's conflict as he pulled his sunglasses off. "Come on."

"I'm not going in there."

"You are."

"I'm _not_."

"Look, I get it, okay? You don't want to go in there because you're afraid of what it'll mean. You don't want to have to explain what happened in that alley, because maybe you don't really know. But you need to get your head checked. I can't have you walking around with an undiagnosed concussion, an infection—or worse. Departmental policy, my hands are tied; my back is against the wall with this, and so is yours."

"But—"

"Nobody needs to know you screamed. Nobody needs to know that you cried or what prompted you to lose it like that. When they ask what happened tell them you tripped— _hell_ , tell them somebody pushed you. You only have to disclose as much as you want to. I won't breathe a word about what happened and I'll make sure Whitley keeps quiet too. If you don't like the truth then make up your own. People will believe it, and it's only a matter of time before you will too."

 _"Can I trust you to keep my secret, Davy?"_

Starsky closed his eyes as the unnerving question came rushing back. Slurred words spoken by Blaine years ago, under the unsettling green neon lighting of The Parrot, a small, clandestine gay bar hidden on the east side of town. Starsky had been in college, newly twenty-one, and searching for something—or someone—to explain the building confusion he felt over his wavering—seemingly fluid—sexuality. He never thought that person would be John Blaine.

"What's another secret between us, bud," Blaine whispered, repeating a worn-out assertion from years ago. Tossing his sunglasses on the dashboard, he snaked his hand out to clench Starsky's knee.

Starsky's iPhone vibrated in his pants pocket—yet another text message from Hutch, one of several he usually sent through-out the day. Short, quick words written with the intension of ensuring Starsky felt less alone. But—as with the others sent earlier that morning—this message would remain unanswered. Starsky didn't have the courage to respond, or the wherewithal to feign stability and strength. Not after what happened in the alley; not with blood sliding down his shirt collar; not with Blaine seated next to him.

"Come on, Davy," Blaine said deeply. "We're both trustworthy confidants. I won't tell if you don't want me to."

His phone vibrated again, reminding Starsky that there was a price attached to secrets. An overbearing, suffocating weight to endure when struggling to keep them contained. No matter what Blaine chose to believe, someone would always have to be privy to the truth.

Xx

Starsky struggled not to cringe as he lay on the hard bed of the CT machine. An abrasive whirring noise filled the room, grating on his nerves and increasing the intensity of his already unbearable headache.

Removing his bloody shirt, he had entrusted top of his uniform to Blaine as he exchanged one stifling article of clothing for another. Ill-fitting and uncomfortable, the hospital gown felt like sandpaper as it grate against his skin, but at least they had allowed him to keep his pants on. A small victory in a much larger battle.

"We're almost done, Officer Starsky," a woman's soft voice stated through the room's loud speaker, and Starsky fought the urge to crawl out of the sterile, liner tube and run from the room. The machine was too loud and too white, highlighting the silent darkness hiding in the corners of the room and Hutch's glaring absence from his side.

Blaine had offered to call Hutch but Starsky refused—an impetuous decision he deeply regretted now. Comforting and good or unsettling and bad, Hutch's presence was grounding; he wasn't used to contending with hospital visits alone. Not that he was really alone—Blaine certainly wasn't going to leave him—but his superior's presence was neither as reassuring nor as welcome as it had once been and Starsky ached for Hutch's protection—against the uncertainty of hospital tests and the horrifying memory of the alley threatening to embed itself into his brain.

The darkness had been too much to contend with—just as it always was, just as it always would be—but he couldn't help wondering what Trisha, the tough bartender, had seen. Had her panicked reaction been prompted by the body or something more?

What figure had been lurking in the darkness to reveal themselves to her?

Closing his eyes tightly, he struggled to push the power of the memory aside. But it consumed him, transforming him to another place. Standing in the middle of a hollow room, he was surrounded by darkness. His legs shook under his weight as the foul thickness of the air threatened to suffocate him. The room was wet, permeated with an overpowering earthy smell—moldy dirt and rotting wood—intermixing with a profane rotten odor.

Blinking rapidly, he squinted into the impenetrable blackness surrounding him. He had never been to this place and yet it was familiar, and he was overcome by an odd mixture of apprehension and peace.

 _"_ _You can't move forward if you refuse to look back,"_ a voice whispered. Calm and monotone, its quiet tenor snaked through the darkness, reaching his ears in a maddening hiss. _"You cannot move from this place, if you reject the questions you should asking and the truth you know."_

Turning in place, Starsky took an immediate step back. A figure was in the corner, a man's decaying form illuminated by the transparent sheen of his rotting flesh. Standing tall on frail bones, it assessed him with opaque, lifeless eyes. Cuts marred the figure in crisscross patterns, thin strips of decaying muscle and skin hanging precariously from the patterns carved in its flesh. Hairless, the face was hollow; discolored, decomposing skin outlined the skull in horrific detail. The back of the figure's head had been beaten in, but on its cheek was a scar. Achingly familiar, its puckered redness prompted Starsky to touch his own cheek, absently scratching the scar poorly hidden beneath his short beard.

"Who are you?" he asked breathlessly.

The figure smiled. _"No one."_

"Where am I?"

 _"_ _Nowhere."_

Starsky took a step back as the figure stepped forward. Fear clenched his stomach muscles as it continued to advance and its crazed smile grew. The clicking of its knees—bone grinding against bone with a painful, sickening snap—was mesmerizing, freezing him in place as he was approached then circled by something that was dead but living; a sightless creature that tracked his every movement with unnerving accuracy.

 _"_ _Who do you belong to?"_ it asked.

"Nobody."

 _"_ _Why is he holding on to you?"_

The question didn't make sense—at least not in a logical way—but Starsky understood its purpose. The only person holding on to him was Hutch but counseling, brief in-patient treatments, and flawed coping techniques had conditioned him to ignore the horrifying questions imprinted in the depths of his mind.

"I don't know," Starsky whispered.

 _"_ _You do_." Pausing in front of him, the figure considered him thoughtfully, its icy breath insulting his nostrils with sour words. _"The world doesn't understand what you know; it doesn't see what you see. It is easier for them to label you than it is to accept the evil that lurks in the darkness. It is easier to change you than it is to tolerate the terror that comes with knowing the truth."_

Abruptly opening his eyes, Starsky grunted as he felt the bed of the CT machine move beneath him, shifting slowly out of the tube with a sinister hiss.

"Don't stand up too quickly," the scrub-clad female technician advised. "We don't want you passing out on us again."

"Again?" Starsky asked. His vision swam as he stood and he clenched his head tightly, feeling an overbearing wave of nausea. Rising in his stomach, it climbed rapidly up his throat, leaving a threatening tightness behind. "I didn't pass out."

"Take it slow," The Technician warned, grasping his arm." One concussion is more than enough for today."

Following her lead, Starsky walked slowly down the hospital corridor. His feet felt heavy under his body, impossibly weighted by the dread seeping into his stomach as each step took him closer to where he had begun. The recessed fluorescent lighting flickered, filling the hallway with a hollow, grinding buzz. The noise was unnerving, and coming upon the line of compact exam areas, separated and contained by thin, white curtains, he hesitated, his eyes frozen on a dark shadow hinting at something sinister lurking behind the curtain.

"You okay?" The Technician asked, tightening her grip on his rigid arm.

"Yeah," he said. His voice sounded far away as his heartbeat thudded in his ears, sounding liquid and mechanical. The rise and fall of ocean waves propelled by storm winds, taunting and teasing a shoreline.

He couldn't go behind the curtain, Starsky thought suddenly, a cool numbness overcoming his body. He didn't want to know what terrible thing was waiting for him on the other side. The body from the alley had seeped into his mind, asking horrifying questions and awakening his fear.

What had he seen and what did he know? What had happened to the man in the alley?

"You should sit down," The Technician said, her kind voice firm.

"I think... I'd like to stand."

"You're shaking."

"I'm—" Starsky jumped, nearly toppling over as Blaine jerked the curtain open.

"David," he chastised, his voice deep, stern, and paternal. "Stop being a pain in the ass. Get in here and sit down before you fall over."

"I think I'd like to call Hutch now," Starsky said weakly, the words leaving his mouth with little thought.

"What's the point, bud?" Grasping his upper-arm and supporting his weight, Blaine pulled Starsky toward the hospital bed. "They did their tests, the doctor will be in soon to talk to you, and then they'll send you on your way. By the time Hutch gets here they'll be discharging you."

"But I need a ride."

"I'll be your ride."

Starsky flinched as Blaine ran his fingers through his blood-matted hair. The gruffness of his touch was familiar, comforting but unwelcome. He felt panic rise in his chest as the curtains were drawn, enveloping the small space in muted darkness.

Xx

"Sir," Whitley said, leaning against the trunk of the squad car parked horizontally behind Blaine's sedan in the hospital parking lot.

"Whitley," Blaine said coolly. "You're illegally parked."

"You said to come down right away, so I did. Is it my fault there isn't anywhere to park?" Nodding at Starsky, Whitley smiled. "How's your head, partner?"

"No stitches," Starsky said, caressing the small bandage on the side of his head. "I guess I'll live."

"One hell of a concussion, though," Blaine added, looking expectantly at Whitley. "You keep an eye on him for the next couple of days. Make sure he doesn't do or say anything weird—"

"John!" Starsky protested.

"Concussion protocol, buddy," Blaine said. "Nothing more; nothing less."

"Ah, you'll be fine." Whitley grinned. "Do you guys want to hear some good news? We got a possible ID on the body."

"Already?" Blaine asked.

"It's Matthew Avery, one of the missing felons."

"No shit?" Blaine's face contorted with a mixture of awe and shock.

"Dental records still have to be compared but I'd bet my badge on it."

"Don't bet your badge on anything." Blaine lifted a chastising index finger. "Facts have a way of changing with the wind, and clinging to premature or unwarranted certainties is a damn good way to lose your shield."

"Avery was the first one to disappear, wasn't he?" Starsky said, struggling to pull the details of the case from the depths of his memory. He hadn't been active during Avery's disappearance.

The only facts he knew were what little he caught from the media—of course, that was before Hutch banned the news, citing it was too traumatic, too undermining to Starsky's recovery to fill his head with such things.

"A little over a year ago," Whitley said. "He was the first of what is it...six missing men, now?"

"Six missing felons," Blaine corrected. "Oh, that little wanna-be-reporter gal is going to have a field day with this." He laughed. "You better watch yourself, Davy. If you thought Callie Baker was interested in getting a sound bite from you before, just wait until she hears you were the one who found Avery's body."

"Avery's suspected body," Starsky mumbled, uneasiness filling his gut. "We don't know if it's him."

"Oh, it's him," Whitley assured. "Just you wait; the ID will be solid."

"Then the two of you can start working backwards," Blaine said. Pulling the car keys from his pocket, he pointed his index finger between Whitley and Starsky. "Figure out what happened to him and why."

"Seriously?" Whitley asked hopefully. "You're going to let us keep this case?"

"We're not homicide, John," Starsky said uneasily. He should have been excited by what Blaine was proposing but he was afraid. He didn't want to see the dead man again; he didn't want to think about how he died, who had killed him or why, or what any of it had to do with him.

"On the sly," Blaine said, looking at Whitley. "You know Ryan will try to hand it off to the boys in homicide or Dobey's crew. But you've earned it Whitley, and I know Davy is itching to get his hands dirty and his head back in the game. Isn't that right?" He looked at Starsky expectantly.

Starsky nodded, his throat too tight to speak. It was all he wanted but the words seemed wrong—the thought of working the case even more so. He felt weighted with panic as Blaine's face hardened and his eyes sparkled with an implicit warning: _This is your shot, buddy. The one you've been waiting for. Don't fuck it up._

Blaine glanced at his wristwatch, his face contorting. "Where the hell did this day go?" he asked rhetorically, his gaze settling on Starsky. "I'm due at your uncle's house in thirty minutes, want to tag along?"

"I don't know, John," Starsky said hesitantly and his phone vibrated wildly in his pocket, another of Hutch's bids for contact ignored. He didn't want to go to his aunt and uncle's house where he would be forced to lie about how horrible the day had been. He wanted to go home—to the predictability of Lucky's excited greeting, to the certainty of Hutch's steadfast strength. His husband wouldn't ask him to lie about the day—in fact, even with the prominent bandage on his head, Hutch wouldn't press for details at all.

"Oh, come on! It's poker night." Blaine eyed Whitley. "You like poker, don't you?"

"I guess." Whitley shrugged. "I've never really played."

"You're kidding!" Shifting his gaze to Starsky, Blaine smiled. "You hear that, Davy? Your partner hasn't played poker. Now that just isn't right. You bum a ride off him, direct him to your Aunt and Uncle's place, this is a situation that has to be rectified. You can't be partnered with a guy, let alone trust him, if you don't know how believable his poker face is, or what it looks like."

"It's been a long day," Starsky protested. He had no interest in discovering the credibility of Whitley's deadpan expression—or his ability to follow through on a lie. He was too tired and deeply unsettled. "All I want to do is go home."

"Aw, come on, Starsky," Whitley said lightly. "You can catch up with the wife later. Besides, we haven't really gotten to know each other, yet. I don't see you outside of work; it would be good to hang out, you know, just as guys, not as cops forced to share a confined space."

"Yeah, Davy." Brows raising, Blaine's eyes sparkled curiously. "I'm sure your _wife_ will understand. Besides, Rosie and Al's place is still kind of your home too. You can relax there; get some rest _and_ get to know your partner. Convenient."

For who? Starsky wondered as Blaine entered his vehicle, waiving his hand in a dismissive fashion, leaving him no other choice but to join Whitley in their squad car.

Xx

"Davy!" Al exclaimed, wrapping his nephew in a tight hug. "I didn't know you were coming tonight."

"It was an impromptu decision."

"Well, it was a good one."

Standing in the middle of his Aunt and Uncle's attached garage, Starsky looked self-consciously around, taking in the small group of men who had attended poker night since as far back as he could remember. A mixture of neighbors and business associates, it was a group of old friends—people who Starsky had known for years— and Whitley. Snorting, Starsky watched his partner follow Blaine around the garage like an eager puppy—just happy to be included in the apparent exclusive event— quickly integrating himself in the group and helping to quickly set up the stack of folded card tables in the far corner.

He didn't want to be here, Starsky realized numbly, his head pounding incessantly. There were so many other places he should be than where he was. He felt like an outsider; an imposter; a shadow of who he once was or who he was supposed to be.

"What happened there?" Al asked. Eyebrows furrowing, he pointed at the bandage on Starsky's head.

"Nothing much."

"Doesn't look like nothing much."

"It's not a big deal."

Sighing, Al crossed his arms in a dissatisfied manner. "Davy, it's awful soon to be starting with the secrets again, don't you think?" he whispered quietly. "You only just went back to work. If John is pushing you too hard or expecting too much then you need to say something. Nobody is going to advocate for you but you."

"I said it was fine," Starsky hissed exasperatedly. He didn't want to talk about what had happened that afternoon; he didn't want to think about the inevitable events that had led him to this moment. He didn't have the words to explain how he felt, what he had seen, or why.

"You're positive," Al asked.

"Of course." Starsky shrugged, feigning an assurance—and indifference—he didn't feel.

"Hey, no uniforms in the garage guys," an older man sporting a Bay City Fire Department t-shirt said. Eyeing Starsky and Whitley, he walked around the card tables, passing bottles of Budweiser to the group. "You gotta leave your job at the door. This is a duty free zone, if you get what I mean."

"I don't have anything else," Whitley said, patting his palms self-consciously over the breast pockets of his dark uniform.

"Davy will get you sorted out," Al assured. "He has a closet full of clothes in that bedroom of his."

"Bedroom?" Whitley asked, his face contorting with confusion.

"Come on." Starsky tilted his head toward the small door connecting the garage and kitchen. "I'm sure we can find you something to wear. This crew looks unassuming but they're a stickler for rules."

Xx

"There's a bathroom down the hall where you can change," Starsky said. Crouching in front of the dresser, he handed Whitley and pair of jeans and t-shirt.

"Thanks, man." Whitley smiled. Moving toward the door he hesitated, taking a moment to look curiously around the small bedroom littered with the scattered monuments of Starsky's adolescence and few random items indicating he had spent time there as an adult. His gaze froze on the line of pictures on the nightstand—a smiling, seemingly perfect, four member family from years ago; a young boy, his eye blackened from a fight but a wide smile on his face, sitting on cement porch steps next to much younger John Blaine; and something more recent, Starsky standing next to a tall blond man, one arm wrapped around each other and the sides of their heads touching as they held up twin beers. "Do you live here?" he asked.

"No." Starsky shook his head, hoping the word would be enough to satisfy his partner's curiosity. Though the question was innocent and direct, the answer was less so. Officially, he hadn't lived in Rosie and Al's house in years, but post-Marcus he had spent more nights in his childhood bedroom than he ever wanted to admit. He had spent weeks in the home after being rescued from the Marcus Compound and countless, scattered nights since Hutch's re-appearance. Some stays had been voluntary, others less so, but Rosie and Al had always welcomed him with open arms. Allowing him to seek respite in their company for as long as he needed to. "I used to," he added. "Rosie and Al are family; I moved in with them when I was nine."

"How come?"

"Uh," Starsky hedged, struggling to decide how much of his past he wanted Whitley to know—how much of the information he had choice in whether it was disclosed. His new partner's presence at poker night was purposeful; a careful push from Blaine to lay the groundwork for Starsky and Whitley's budding partnership. Perfectly executed manipulation meant to foster a friendship between the two.

"That was a stupid question," Whitley said. "Obviously, whatever caused you to be here couldn't have been good."

"It's alright," Starsky said, finally settling on a comfortable amount of the truth. "My dad died, and my mom didn't handle it well."

"Ah, shit. I'm sorry."

"It's fine. It was a long time ago." Starsky nodded at the doorway. "You better get changed before Blaine starts a recovery mission. They're going start soon and, being the new guy, you don't want to miss the first deal."

Starsky forced a smile as Whitley left the room, but it faltered the moment his partner quietly shut the door. He didn't know how he was supposed return to the garage, act normal, and play poker—of all things. He didn't want to be here; he wanted to go home. But he wasn't sure it existed anymore—at least not in the way he remembered it. All comfort had been obliterated—or ignored—by palpable tiredness and stifling stress. Terrible arguments, secret basement projects, lingering childhood best friends, and nightmares filled the air of the apartment, resonating a negative energy that seemed to crawl into every opening.

Pulling his phone from his pocket he exhaled heartily; though his battery was nearly dead, the screen was lit with an array of text notifications, missed calls, and voicemails. But he had suspended the inevitable for this long, what would it matter if he ignored it for a moment longer?

Tossing his phone on the bed, he changed quickly, hanging his gun belt in the closet and depositing his dirty uniform in the hamper, trading the stifling fabric for a button up shirt and lose-fitting cargo shorts. Hearing a knock on the door, he rolled his eyes, stifling a groan as he sat on the bed.

Was it too much to hope for a few moments alone?

"What?" Starsky asked, resting his head tiredly in his hands as the door was flung open. Heavy footsteps echoed across the floor, bringing a familiar pair of worn, brown tennis shoes closer and closer to his sock covered feet. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing," Hutch growled, his voice hushed but irritated. Crossing his arms expectantly, he looked Starsky up and down through eyes slit with worry-fueled anger. "Your phone broken?"

"No."

"You were able to receive calls today?"

"Yes."

"Text messages too?"

"Yes."

"You were ignoring me then?"

"How did you know I was here?" Starsky repeated.

"How did I know you were here? Well, I sure didn't hear it from you, now did I? _Christ_ , do you have any idea how worried I've been?"

"Worried? It barely past seven."

"I got a call today, advising that you have been involved in an incident at a crime scene. I went to the hospital, where they supposedly took you, only to find you weren't there. Nobody would tell me what happened or how badly you were hurt, and you refused to answer your _fucking_ phone!"

"You could have called the station. They would have told you I was okay."

"Oh, that's a bad joke! Getting information out of the people down there is worse than trying to pry it from you. I have been all over this city, if Luke wouldn't have called to check in, telling me that you disappeared with Blaine then I'd still be looking for you!"

"Huntley knows what happened?" Starsky frowned, horrified by the notion that—despite Blaine's intervention—the details of the afternoon's demoralizing incident were already spreading around Metro. "How did he find out about it?"

"Is that really all you care about, keeping your reputation intact? Why the _hell_ didn't you call _me_?"

"Everything okay in here?" Whitley's voice asked. He smiled sheepishly as twin pairs of blue eyes looked at him, one set widening with embarrassment, the other narrowing with outrage. "Blaine sent me on a recovery mission. They're dealing the first hand."

"This is a private conversation," Hutch snapped. "Tell Blaine he's going have to survive this one alone."

Seemingly taken aback by Hutch's demeanor, Whitley didn't move. "Sure you're okay, partner?"

"Oh, I see how it is!" Hutch looked at Starsky who stared at the floor. "That's why you didn't call. What do you need me for, huh? Your partner was already with you."

"It isn't like that," Starsky whispered.

"Don't tell me what it's like. You have obligations and so do I, and I'm sick and tired of ignoring mine to make sure you follow through on yours. I sent Jack and Huggy to cover Keiko's league practice because I was busy looking for you. If I leave now I can catch the tail end of it."

"Hutch." Starsky's shoulders sank as Hutch stalked out the door. "Hutch!" he said, following him down the hallway and out the front door. "Will you wait?" he exclaimed. "Just wait a second!"

"For what? A phone call that's never going to come? Or for you to find a place for me in the new life you're so intent on creating on your own?"

"It isn't like that."

"Don't tell me what it's like! I know! The problem is I don't think you do. You seem pretty comfortable here, so I suggest you don't come home. I need a night off from this; I need some space away from you."

"I don't have a car," Starsky objected. "How am I supposed get to work in the morning?"

"Not my problem, buddy. Tell your partner to pick you up. Or, better yet, talk to Blaine. He lives across the street, I'm sure he's dying for you to tag along."

"And what are you going to do?" Starsky demanded, lingering beside Hutch's open truck window as he slammed the door. "Stay out all God-damn night hitting every bar you can think of with Jack?"

Gripping the steering wheel tightly, Hutch's face darkened. "At least I don't have to guess about how I fit into his life," he whispered dangerously. "At least with Jack I'll always know where I stand."

Starsky flinched as Hutch sped away. Their cruel, frustrated words resonated in his head, eliciting a deep throbbing sting in his heart. What did Jack Mitchell give Hutch that he couldn't get from Starsky? How could Hutch—his husband—fit into Mitchell's life more easily than his own?

"That was... interesting."

Starsky jumped, turning in place to find Whitley assessing him from paces away.

"So, that was Hutch," Whitley continued. "Your old partner."

Starsky snorted disgustedly. Whitley couldn't be any denser if he tried. "Hutch isn't my _old partner_ ," he growled, stalking past him. "He's the damn _wife_ you always want to know so much about!"


	41. Chapter Forty-One

The night was cold.

Calm under a black, starless sky. The street was quiet. Enveloped in an insincere sense of perfection and peace, despite the fog clinging to the ground. Thick and abrasive, it resembled smoke, and emerging through the front door of Venice Place, it was something Starsky should have payed heed to—or at least noticed—but dressed only in boxer shorts, his bare calves cutting through the smog at a maddening pace, he didn't.

Putting one foot in front of the other, he moved quickly. Swift, mechanical paces motivated by his desire to see something and to understand something else. His body was at ease as he turned the corner of the building, setting his gaze on the basement door. Hanging open, it was swinging, ever so slightly, the sole target of a fictitious breeze.

He stood in doorway for a moment, clenching his fists at his sides, his eyes tracking the darkness of the stairwell and the unseen contents of the confines below. Suddenly, he wasn't sure what to do. Whether he could muster the courage to descend the dark stairs, allowing the darkness engulf him, or if he should return to the apartment, to Lucky, his husband, and the false safety of heavy covers and their oversized bed.

If he could somehow make himself turn around, then maybe he could go back.

 _"_ _Back to what?"_ a hissing voice asked. Turning in place, Starsky saw the figure from his vision—the man from the alley—its body haggard, decomposing and crumbling beneath its weight, assessing him thoughtfully with hollow blind eyes. Boney hand snaking up to finger the prominent scar covering its decaying cheek, it smiled toothlessly. _"What would you do instead?"_

"Go back to bed," Starsky said, his voice sounding weak and monotone. He should have been afraid, but he wasn't. He should have been unsettled, but, instead, he was relieved. If the figure was present that meant he wasn't alone—that he didn't have to face the darkness _alone_.

 _"_ _You can't go back to bed and sleep any more than you can forget what has been done. These events have touched you in a way no one will ever understand. He has hurt you in a way that can never be healed."_

Starsky didn't have to ask to know the events it was speaking of—or the person who had wounded him beyond repair. "It wasn't him," he said firmly. "The thing in the darkness that hurt me wasn't Hutch." He paused, his brows furrowing as he bit his lower lip. "It wasn't _my_ Hutch."

 _"_ _And you still think there is clear distinction between the two? Between the man who brought you to Marcus and the one who saved you, between the one who left when you needed him the most and the one who eventually returned?"_

"There's a difference," Starsky lied, though he didn't know why. The figure knew the truth—they both did—there was little point to denying it now. "Why should I feel bad about something I can't do anything about? Hutch took me to Marcus and he brought me back. He left after Ryan fired him and then he came back, nothing can change what he chose to do now."

 _"_ _You lie very well,"_ the figure said in a delighted tone. _"You cover your pain and insecurities in a predicable manner. I'm sure that pleases him. It enables it to do exactly what it wants when it wants. Predictability is an enemy, but it's also a friend. That's how you knew what it was. That's what told you something was wrong."_

"It wouldn't call me my name," Starsky whispered, recalling the glaring detail that unsettled him the most. "Hutch hates first names; even before I knew who he named after, I was never allowed to call him Kenneth and he had no interest in calling me David."

 _"_ _That was the first clue. What was the second?"_

Frowning, Starsky thought of another name. Hutch's recent preferred endearment; a moniker he had never bothered to use before. Was it coincidence that he had deferred to using the one nickname Starsky couldn't endure?

Sweetheart.

Did Hutch know the arsenal of a bad memories the word awoke? Or rather, did _it_ know that every time the term was spoken it was pushing Starsky closer toward the edge—past what he would tolerate from the man he loved, inching him closer and closer toward the fragmented boundary of his sanity and the horrific confusion that dwelled beyond.

The word unraveled him, a little bit at a time, and all his bids for the term to be abandoned had been purposefully ignored.

"Heya, buddy!" a familiar voice exclaimed suddenly, emerging from the bottom of the basement stairs. "What are you are you doing up there?"

"Um," Starsky said. Extending his hand to linger in the dark stairwell, he grasped at air, blindly searching for a handrail that didn't seem to exist.

"Come on, Starsky!" Jack Mitchell laughed, his voice sounding distorted and fragmented, deepened and elongated by the darkness hiding everything but the sparkling of his eyes. "Come on down. Let me show you the place."

"I don't think so," Starsky said, an odd sensation overwhelming his body. It wasn't quite panic, but it wasn't far off. His skin was clammy and his blood felt frozen. Sharp, icy liquid that rushed through his veins, leaving them sliced and torn, and filling him with conflicting emotions: apathy and dread.

Why had had bothered to get out of bed? And why did even care, anymore?

 _"_ _You know why,"_ the figure said. _"You have to be brave enough to take the first step. You have to be willing to admit what has happened in order to go forward, because there is no going back."_

"There's no going forward either," Starsky whispered. "Not with the way thing are. Not with who he is— _what_ —he is now. How am I supposed to win against that? How am I supposed to tell the truth when I'm so unreliable in other people's eyes and it's so credible?"

"Come on down, Starsky," Mitchell said, his hissing voice too soft—too unsettling—to be his own. "We've been waiting for you."

Gasping, Starsky felt something grasp his arm. Gripping him tightly, it tugged firmly, pulling him down the staircase at a horrifying pace. Choking on air, his bare feet slipped on the wet, uneven stairs and he nearly fell, but something kept him upright. He felt a hand on his arm and one on his lower back. One quickly propelling him into the darkness and one ensuring he didn't fall into the unknown.

Reaching the bottom of the stairwell, he felt the touch disappear, evaporating into the darkness as quickly as it appeared. Looking around rapidly, he squinted, frantically trying to see something—anything—in the blackness surrounding him. Suddenly, the hands returned, settling on his back and shoving him violently, pushing him forward and sending him flailing through the darkness.

He hit the earth with a thud. Head ricocheting off the ground, he saw stars in his vision and the breath was knocked from his chest, leaving him choking on a cloud of dust. A sliver of light shone down on him, though where it was coming from was unknown. Enveloping his body in a mellow hue, it drew a circle around him, a near solid line to keep the darkness at bay. The floor was disconcerting. Cold and wet, it was sporadically covered with sticks and twigs, small jagged rocks and sharp pine needles, and dirt. The floor was composed of mounds of dirt.

Briefly, he wondered why the basement—the street assessable level of their building—had no finished floors. How it could more reminiscent of a cavernous crevice in the wild wilderness than a building in the city? The air was scented of pine and clean forest rain, and, struggling for a deep breath, Starsky thought he heard the howling of a wild animal in the distance. But the sound was soon silenced by the ringing of his ears and heavy approaching footsteps.

"Did you hurt yourself?" Hutch asked, his voice weighted with pleasure. Stepping into the light, he titled his head, assessing Starsky curiously with wide, wild eyes.

Coughing, Starsky grimaced, a jolting pain spreading through his chest. Beginning at the bottom of his ribcage, it traveled rapidly through his body, filling his throat with liquid and his mouth with an all familiar taste. Wiping at his wet lips, he stared at the smeared blood on the back of his hand.

"It looks like you did." Hutch grinned. "See what happens when you stray too far from where you should be? See what happens when you don't do exactly as you're told?"

"You didn't tell me to do anything," Starsky whispered hoarsely. This was a dream; it _had_ to be a dream. How could he be standing outside of the building—paces away from the parking lot where he and his husband parked—and then here? Whatever godforsaken place had swallowed him down.

"You don't like it here," Hutch said, somehow understanding Starsky's silent, confused conflict. "I didn't at first either, but it grew on me. The darkness has a way of seeping in, of making you like things you were determined not to, of making you love the things you swore you'd never do."

"Where's Jack?"

"He isn't here."

"But I heard him."

"You thought you did," Hutch said, his cold voice matter-of-fact. Kneeling in front of Starsky, he looked at him inquisitively, as though he couldn't understand why he was still laying on the ground. "But we both know how you imagine things. We both know you see things that aren't quite real, and how you hear people saying things that they never ever would."

Starsky felt a coldness climb through his body, a chilling warning that prompted him to run. But laying chest down on the ground, he remained immobile. Frozen place by the terror awakened by seeing Hutch—this version of Hutch, its eyes shining with evil excitement—standing in front of him once more.

Why was the ground dirt? This was their basement, not something else—not someplace else—there should have been flooring of some sort.

"I'm not crazy," Starsky whispered, his voice quaking with terror. "No matter how you try to make me feel."

"Oh, sweetheart," Hutch laughed. "I would _never_ try to make you _feel_ anything, and I don't think you're crazy at all. In fact, I think you're the sanest person in the world."

"What do you want from me?"

"Everything. And, yet, nothing at all."

"No," Starsky gasped as Hutch extended his hand, displaying long, sharp, discolored fingernails. This wasn't happening, not again. This was a dream; it _had_ to be a dream. If it wasn't then something was wrong. Something was terribly, terribly wrong. "Hutch, _no_."

"He left," Hutch said, his voice a low, taunting whisper as he caressed Starsky's head, cupping his cheek fondly before his touch became callous and cruel.

A deep, thick scream escaped Starsky's chest as he felt the sharp sting of fingernails cutting into his head, puncturing the bandage covering his wound, embedding themselves deep into his scalp as Hutch's crazed smile grew.

"He left," Hutch repeated. "But what came back? Who am I to you?"

"Not him," Starsky spat through clenched teeth. The pain was unbearable and soon he felt the telltale signs of shock spread through his body. He felt a numbness climb up his extremities as blood spilled from his head, trailing down his neck at an alarming rate. He had to move, he thought wildly; he had to get Hutch out of his head. Pressing his palms against the ground, he pushed himself back, moving his stiff legs to propel himself away from Hutch's touch and into the darkness. "You'll _never_ be him."

Grinding laughter filling his head, he felt the fingernails slip from his scalp. He exhaled heavily, a full-bodied sigh of relief that only accompanied sudden respite from intense pain; then he screamed, a deep-chested cry of a panic that could only be voiced in moments of extreme terror. He was falling again. Traveling through endless darkness at a rapid speed. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard an abrasive vibrating noise. His first real indication that nothing was as it seemed.

He groaned as his back hit the floor, sending a jolt of pain through his head, down his neck and back. Tears of strain spilled down his cheeks as his eyes fluttered open and he fought for air against the pain crippling his chest. Shaking his head, he blinked rapidly, struggling to reconcile his dream with reality; trying desperately to ease the residual panic awoken by the darkness of the basement as he looked around his current peaceful surroundings.

The hardwood floor was warm beneath his back, long green curtains fluttered as night air, crisp and clean, entered through the crack in the window, and the small lamp on the nightstand illuminated the room, intermixing flawlessly with the Mickey Mouse nightlight shining in the corner of his childhood bedroom.

Arm moving slowly, he touched his scalp and found his wound untouched, safe and dry beneath the bandage hiding it from view. "It was a dream," he whispered disbelievingly, hoping the affirmation would settle the pounding in his chest and sickness in his stomach. "It was all just a dream."

 _But it wasn't all a dream_ , a voice hissed in the depths of his mind. Laying on the floor, Starsky stared at the ceiling, rubbing his hands forcefully over his face, struggling to ignore the words.

The dream itself wasn't new; it was the same reoccurring nightmare he been experiencing for months—haunting images and conversations, being surrounded by darkness, stuck in sliver of light as Hutch assaulted him once more—but the setting was. He had never dreamed of entering the basement before, and the decomposing figure was new. Of course, it had to be, Starsky mused humorlessly, he had only discovered the body in the alley that afternoon.

The tip of his index finger grazed the scar on his cheek, hastening his frenzied movement as his iPhone lit up, filling the room with an abrasive grinding as it vibrated against the night stand and he jolted upright, looking at the incoming call with wide eyes.

"Hello?" he whispered, his dry voice shaking, pressing the phone to his ear.

"God, _finally_ ," Hutch said. "I've been trying to reach you for the last half hour. What are you doing?"

"Sleeping. It's the middle of the night."

"It's barely past eleven."

"I'm tired."

"Normal tired or a bad-day-depressed-kind-of-tired?"

"I don't know," Starsky sighed, feeling impossibly small, incapable of doing the most basic of things. He wanted Hutch, to feel the safety of his arms, to be enveloped in the certainty of his love. But as quickly as it had overwhelmed him, the desire faded; he couldn't recall the last time his husband's presence had provided such things. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to get a hold of you. I'm outside."

"Where?"

"Rosie and Al's. Are you going to come out here or what?"

"Why didn't you knock on the door?" Starsky asked quizzically. Aunt Rosie was an eternal night owl, often reading alone in the living room accompanied by an old jazz record and a glass of wine. Surely, she would have let Hutch in had he made his presence known.

"Because I don't want to talk to Rosie or Al. I want to see you."

"Why?"

"Will you just come out here, please?"

"Fine."

The cement sidewalk felt cool under Starsky's feet as he walked toward the street. Like Hutch, he had decided to avoid his Aunt and Uncle's attention, slipping out the backdoor, cutting across the driveway and onto the front sidewalk. The neighborhood was quiet, peaceful under the mellow glow of the streetlights—not unlike the beginning of his dream. But this neighborhood contained a familiar peace, and surrounded by inconspicuous houses occupied by unassuming neighbors, Starsky felt at ease.

"You could have taken a second to put on shoes," Hutch said. Arms crossed, he leaned causally against the side of his truck, watching his husband's slow approach. "Or at least a shirt." Brow furrowing, he assessed Starsky carefully, his gaze eventually settling on the baggy sweatpants covering his husband's lower-body. "Or have you forgotten how cold it gets once the sun goes down?"

"I said I was sleeping." Starsky scowled. Though his tone had been light, he felt a flicker of annoyance over his husband's words. Hutch had all but ordered him spend the night at Rosie and Al's, what right did he have to reappear only hours after their volatile fight? "What are you doing here?"

Somehow impervious to Starsky's mood, Hutch smiled. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he offered him two prescription bottles. "You're not going to do well tomorrow if you don't start the day off with these. I was going to bring your sleeping pills but decided not to. Considering you're concussed, they're probably not the greatest idea in the world. How's your uniform looking?"

"What?" Starsky asked dumbly.

"Did blood from your head get on your uniform?"

Starsky shrugged. Maybe it had but he couldn't recall. The events of the afternoon felt far away, scattered and distant as a fragmented memory. Had they really happened or had this day been nothing more than another terrible dream?

"How is your head feeling?" Hutch asked. "You tell Rosie and Al that they need to wake you every few hours?" His expression softened as Starsky's face contorted with confusion and he shook his head. "I didn't think so. Sweetheart—"

"Don't call me that!" Starsky hissed.

Gripping the sides of his head, the vision of his mother emerged from the depths of his mind. Her skin had been rotten, her words more so, but why had he seen her? What purpose did her appearance serve? Thoughts becoming frantic, unwelcome panic clenched his chest and he pressed his hands over his ears as her taunting words filled his head: _you have no idea what he's done. What your love for him has led him to do._

"No." Starsky closed his eyes tightly. He didn't want to think of that. Not tonight—not ever if he could silence his doubts. He was too tired, his brain too muddled to think of such things. "No."

He didn't know what he was denying—the truth of what his mother had said or the idea that he had seen her. His mother wasn't dead, rather very much alive. Safe and well, living in the city in an apartment in the same complex as his little brother back east.

"Hey, what's going on right now, huh?" Grasping his wrists, Hutch pulled Starsky's hands away. "Take a deep breath," he whispered, repeating the gentle order meant to soothe away impending panic and ease the weight of things better left alone.

But it was too late for that now, Starsky thought as he did was he was told. Inhaling deeply, he held his breath for a moment before exhaling and inhaling once more. It was too late to change what had happened, to go forward or back. The weight of past events belonged to him now; the pain of what had been done had been carved into his pounding heart.

"Why are you here?" he asked, hating how quiet and helpless he sounded. What was it about Hutch that made him feel so incapable? What about his husband awakened his fear, filling him with overwhelming anger and a deep desire to run and hide?

"I came because I was worried about you," Hutch said softly, his words almost sounding sincere. "David, listen, I know you've had a hard day. You're tired and hurt; let me take you home where I can make sure you're properly taken care of."

"You weren't so worried about that earlier."

"I was mad earlier."

"And now you're not?" Starsky scoffed thickly. Allowing Hutch to pull him into a loose hug, he ground his forehead against his husband's shoulder, his voice dropping to an uncertain whisper, "Going home isn't going to make anything better, Hutch."

"I don't like you being away from me when you're hurt. Having you home would make me feel better."

"It would make me feel worse."

"Okay. So you'll stay here tonight and come home tomorrow. I brought you a clean uniform incase the other was stained, do you want it?"

"I guess," Starsky said, but feeling his husband's hands rubbing comforting circles on his back, he made no effort to move. Hutch had come to check up on him, to offer him a new uniform—a careful ploy to convince him to return home—but what else had he done? What terrible thing had the intensity of their love prompted him to do? And what unspeakable things did he do in the basement—what atrocities was he hiding in the darkness? "Don't leave," he pleaded, the unwelcome panicked words escaping before he could think about—or stop—them.

"I wouldn't dream of it, sweetheart."

"I mean tonight."

"Oh," Hutch groaned.

"Please?"

"Rosie and Al's is your safe place, buddy, not mine."

"I used to be your safe place," Starsky whispered.

"What makes you think that's changed?"

"Because I want to stay here and all you want to do is leave."

Grasping Starsky's shoulders, Hutch pulled back and gazed at him, his inquisitive eyes sparkling with a knowing gleam. "What happened to you today?"

"Nothing." Starsky shrugged, repeating the lie Blaine had concocted. "The body—uh— alley I was in was a mess; it was littered with junk and trash and I… I tripped."

"You tripped." Hutch nodded disbelievingly. "That sounds highly unlikely, especially for an agile guy like you. Your reflexes are too good, your awareness of your surroundings too keen for that lie to be believable, at least to the people who know you." He smiled. "You know, David, you don't have to be afraid to tell me the truth."

"I'm not afraid, just tired. I don't want to get into the case with you, okay? I don't want to talk about what I found in that alley." Starsky frowned. _I don't know how to talk to you about it,_ he thought, _or if I even can._ Case details were private, disclosed on a need-to-know-basis and only discussed with others of an appropriate rank. And no longer possessing a badge, Hutch was not a proper audience; he was no longer entitled to be privy, or welcome to the details of Starsky's professional life.

"Tired of what?"

 _This. You. Everything._ "Nothing."

"You're a terrible liar," Hutch said in a sing-song tone, and Starsky squirmed from his touch.

"Yeah, well, we all can't be good at it, now can we? You win. You don't want to stay here, fine, but I am. I'll ask Blaine for a ride in the morning and see you at home tomorrow."

"So Blaine didn't bench you," Hutch chuckled. "Not that that's really surprising. You always were his _favorite boy in blue_."

Brows narrowing, Starsky scoffed. If he didn't know better, he would have thought Hutch was jealous.

"I heard a rumor today," Hutch continued, a hint of a challenge in his upbeat tone.

"Yeah?"

"Apparently you and Whitley are going to be looking into what happened to the body in the alley…"

"How do you know about that?" Starsky flinched as Hutch lifted his hand, slowly moving it to caress the bandage on the side of his head. "How do you know what I found back there?"

"… on the sly, of course." Hutch's smile grew as he continued, unaffected by Starsky's question—or his rigid reaction to the touch. "Be careful with Blaine. Be mindful of the secrets you entrust to him and what it'll cost to ensure they're kept."

"There's no price."

"Oh, sweetheart," Hutch whispered, his face contorting with gleeful pity. "Everything worth having always comes with a price."

 _And what price do you pay for still wanting me?_ Starsky thought, silently repeating the haunting re-occurring questions tattooed in the depths of his heart. _Why are you still holding on to me?_

"I'm tired. I want to go back to bed," Starsky said softly. "Can I have that uniform you brought?"

"You can have whatever you want. Anything your heart desires. You just have find the courage to voice the question and then you have to know who to ask."

TBC


	42. Chapter Forty-Two

Sitting at a secluded booth in the back of The Pits, Starsky sighed, tossing a pair of aspirin in his mouth and chasing it with a shallow sip of lukewarm coffee. The liquid did nothing to mask the off-putting taste of the pills; his mouth felt dry and gritty, engulfed in a chalky aftertaste that made his tender stomach flip.

"You still have a headache?" Whitley asked. Sitting opposite Starsky, his gaze was locked on the documents scattered on the table between them. A copy of Matthew Avery's case file, the autopsy report and photographs of the alley where Starsky discovered his body had been delivered to them secretly, courtesy of John Blaine and his endless—seemingly unwise—faith in Starsky's ability to investigate a homicide with the same level-headed professionalism as he once had.

"Yeah."

"Is that the same one you've had since you hit your head in the alley last week?"

Starsky grunted, his headache intensifying at the thought. Had it really been a week since the horrific pounding had taken residence in the depths of his brain? It could have been years for all he knew, as he was no longer sure he recalled what life was like without the intense pain peppering his every breath.

"Maybe you should check in with your doctor," Whitley suggested.

"It's a migraine. I don't need my doctor to tell me that."

"Well, maybe you should try something a little stronger than aspirin, like four ibuprofen, two Excedrin Migraine, and a tall iced black coffee."

"What?"

"That's Amber's miracle cure for her migraines."

"Amber?"

"My girlfriend." Whitley frowned. "Remember?"

He didn't remember, but Starsky snorted; Whitley didn't know half of the drugs he had ingested in effort to quench the thirsty pounding behind his temples. Nothing worked to ebb the debilitating pain threatening his ability to function and feign wholeness—not that he was doing a very good job.

He looked terrible—he knew that. His normally short beard was unkempt—ignored and untrimmed—and his uniform was dirty, stained with speckles of dark, dried blood. The crisp, clean uniform Hutch had brought remained untouched, hanging abandoned in the closet of his childhood bedroom, forgotten by his irrational affinity for the one he had been wearing the day he had discovered Avery's body. Though stained, it was comfortable. Soft, broken in, familiar; a small comfort to help him contend with his increasingly unstable surroundings and the paranoid helplessness that threatened to consume him at any given time.

He wasn't sleeping—or, rather, he wasn't obtaining restful sleep. Captive to his nightmares he awoke each morning feeling more haggard than he had the night before. The dreams were escalating, filling his mind with visions of furious violence, pain and devastation, dread and fear, Hutch and the darkness, and Matthew Avery's toothless smile and putrefying form. Circles had appeared under his eyes; dark and puffy, they stood out on his ashen skin, seemingly highlighting his inability to properly take care of himself, his ineptitude to follow through on basic things without Hutch's quiet, careful supervision.

"Starsky?" Whitley prompted, a hint of pity in his soft tone. "Are you even listening to me?"

Looking at Whitley, taking in his stiff posture and guarded eyes, Starsky verified what he had somehow already known: finding Avery's body had cost him something. He had found the missing man but he lost something else that day, the illusion of stability he had tried hard to foster in his new partner's mind. Assessing him almost clinically, Whitley remained distant. Not pressing for information regarding his personal life as he once had—in fact, after covertly watching Starsky and Hutch's argument, Whitley hadn't brought up Hutch at all.

"Maybe you ought to go home," Whitley continued, holding Starsky's hollow gaze. "You know, sleep it off." He nodded at the autopsy photo in front of him. "Matthew Avery is still going be every-bit-as-dead tomorrow as he is today."

Staring at the picture, Starsky felt a chill crawl up his spine, spreading through his chest and arms it enveloped him in a dreadful tingling sensation. He didn't need photographs to remind him of Avery's grotesque injuries; he saw them every time he closed his eyes. Like his migraine, Avery's body had wormed its way into his head, his toothless grin and familiar scar weighing his heart down with irrepressible trepidation and fear.

What had happened to Avery in the alley, how did he die, and what did it have to do with him?

"You shouldn't say things like that," Starsky whispered, the words escaping him so quickly he wasn't sure they were his own. "You shouldn't speak ill of the dead. You respect them. It could have been you cut up and abandoned in that alley but it wasn't. You're lucky to still be alive." Mouth hanging open, he gaped at Whitley, anticipating his response as he wondered where the odd chastising statement had originated from. He didn't care how his partner chose to speak of Avery—or anyone else.

Whitley's brows rose. " _Okay_ ," he said, his face contorting with an odd combination of worry, sympathy, and skepticism. "Starsky," he added gently. "I think you should go home, partner, knock yourself out with something that'll make you sleep. I _really_ think you need some sleep."

Frowning, Starsky ignored the suggestion. He couldn't go home; he hadn't been there since discovering Avery's body, since before the incessant pounding had taken up residence in his head and helplessness had overwhelmed his heart. He couldn't bring himself to step through the front door. It wasn't safe there—though he wasn't quite sure why—somehow he knew he was better off if he didn't go home.

Perhaps his avoidance of the apartment he shared with Hutch—and Mitchell—was nothing or maybe Huggy was right after all. Maybe his current mental stability was fleeting; maybe, aided by medication, he was destined to have bouts of transient normalcy that would eventually be shattered by irrepressible irrational thoughts. Maybe his paranoia was seeping back in or maybe he was feeling residual nervousness over Hutch's offhand remarks and the dark confines of their basement. Or, maybe, he needed a break from Jack Mitchell, from the stress of his lingering presence that always to silently declare that Starsky didn't know Hutch as well as he thought he did. Mitchell's avoidance of anything outside of his obnoxious pursuance of a good time was irritating, as were his misplaced disclosures about Hutch's childhood—his assertion of power in the oddest of times.

But Hutch's behavior was unsettling too.

Distant and detached, his cool confidant demeanor was unnerving, as was his disinterest, his disassociation, his avoidance to see or understand the depths of Starsky's struggles. And the thought of the two of them together—Hutch and Mitchell, old buddies, best friends—was enough to make Starsky's stomach churn with anger and fear. Contending with his own instability, the nightmares, the stress accompanying his return to work and the lingering trauma he was trying—and failing—to work through coupled with Hutch's peculiar behavior was enough. The addition of Mitchell—the strain of knowing his behavior was being clinically observed by a third party, the embarrassment attached to the memories of Hutch and Mitchell ganging up on him while he was terrified and confused, and the idea that Mitchell, a stranger, had been a voyeur in their bedroom when screaming, Starsky had struggled to push Hutch away, or sobbing, he had clung to desperately to him—was simply too much.

And despite Starsky's disarrayed thoughts—his fierce determination never to return home—one haunting question still remained: How many of Hutch's secrets was Mitchell really privy too, and how many did the two of them share now?

"I can drop you off at home, if you want," Whitley offered.

"I don't need a ride."

"You don't have a car."

"I don't need a car, either."

Pulling his iPhone out of his pocket, Starsky tapped a quick text, an anxiety-fueled plea to Hutch, a futile effort to loosen the ever-growing dread in the pit of his stomach, the same question he had asked countless times over the past week: _Tell me where you are._

His phone vibrated in his palm, Hutch's quick answer reflected on the preview screen: _Home Depot._

Pursing his lips, Starsky's borrow furrowed. The short response told him everything and, yet, nothing at the same time. Hutch had gracefully accommodated his absence, diligently answering phone calls and text messages—but keeping his distance—and allowing Lucky to remain with Starsky at Rosie and Al's.

 _What are you doing?_ Starsky pressed, his fingers gliding expertly across the screen. Biting his lip, he held his breath as a familiar bubble encasing an ellipsis popped up on the messages screen, warning of Hutch's prompt reply: _Handstands. There's a chick working the register I'm trying to impress._

Starsky scoffed at the smart answer. Meant in jest to lighten the mood it did the opposite; he felt his stomach flip as he pictured his husband doing such a thing and his phone lit up with a subsequent message: _What's wrong?_

 _Nothing_. Starsky typed the word slowly, deleted it, and then typed it again. But his fingertip hovered painstakingly over the button that would send it—he couldn't bring himself to lie.

 _Where are you?_ Hutch's probing question popped up on the screen, and closing his eyes, Starsky could almost hear his husband say the words. His quiet voice would be even as he forced a calmness he didn't quiet feel: _Tell me where you are. I know you're not okay._

 _Huggy's_ , Starsky replied, then shoved the phone deep into the pocket of his slacks. It vibrated against his thigh as Hutch responded, but he ignored it, staring absently at the sparse afternoon crowd scattered amongst the other tables. Being separated from Hutch for extended periods of time was deeply unsettling; Starsky could almost feel his grip on reality slipping, cracking and fragmenting a little more each day he decided to remain distant. Though he couldn't go home, he knew he was destined to eventually return.

"Starsky," Whitley said.

"Hmm?"

"What's the plan? You want to go home, or what?"

"No plan," Starsky whispered. _Not anymore_.

Xx

Standing in the small bathroom, hidden away in the secluded studio apartment above The Pits, Starsky leaned over the sink. Filling his hands with cold water, he closed his eyes, splashing it over his face and rubbing his wet palms through his hair and down his neck. He groaned as the icy sensation did nothing to calm the pain in his head, or still the churning of his sickened stomach.

Unable to bear Whitley's disparaging gaze any longer, he had excused himself, feigning the need for a bathroom visit. But marching through the bar and down the hallway containing the public restrooms, he had made a slight detour, slipping unnoticed through a pair of swinging doors, past Huggy's office and up the towering staircase to the secluded, empty studio apartment.

Small and sparsely decorated, the apartment was clean and inviting. An eternal safe place and quiet respite from the rest of the world, Huggy maintained it for nights when either he or his friends had too much to drink or were looking for somewhere to hide from their problems. Though the soothing space had eased his discomfort in the past, it was doing little to help Starsky now.

The aspirin was a horrible idea, he thought, but so was the coffee. The warm liquid left him feeling jittery, more nauseated than before he had forced himself to drink it. He felt a wave of sickness as the liquid and pills agitated his tender stomach. Gripping the sides of the sink, he hung his head and moaned. A deep, hearty sound that echoed through the hollow room and in his mind as his stomach lurched, threatening to violently liberate his body of what little food he had forced himself to consume. His migraine felt weighted—a solid heavy object that shifted, rolling from one side of his head to the other with each move he made—his stomach soured, sickened by too many pills and caffeinated beverages and too little food.

"You might want to let yourself puke," a voice said from behind. "You might feel better if you stopped fighting what is making you sick and embraced it instead."

Eyes widening, Starsky turned in place, blinking furiously and stifling a moan as dark spots speckled his vision, taunting and teasing him with numb unconsciousness. Arm crossed, Hutch leaned against the bathroom doorway.

"Where did you come from?" Starsky asked, the question a low, confused whisper. For a moment he was happy, reassured to find Hutch watching him curiously. But the feeling was fleeting, erased by his husband's indifferent demeanor and the off-putting flicker in his eyes.

"I've been here the whole time."

"No, you haven't. How did you get in here?" Starsky demanded, striding purposefully past Hutch through the open bathroom door only to linger dumbly paces from the front door of the apartment. The deadbolt was locked, the polished brass door-guard firmly secured in place, even if Hutch had somehow unlocked the deadbolt he wouldn't have been able to get past the secondary guard—entry into the apartment was impossible.

"I remember this place," Hutch said, looking fondly around the room. "Do you remember the first night we spent together here?"

"I try not to," Starsky whispered uneasily. "And you shouldn't, either. We promised not to talk about that, remember?"

"Oh, come on," Hutch growled, an edge to his deepening voice. "You had fun, don't try to act like you didn't just because you feel so fucked up now. Don't betray the pleasure of the past to justify the pain of the present. The first time I put my mouth on you, we were laying in that bed." He nodded at the full bed in the corner, his lips curling into a satisfied smile. "You were a little too drunk, sure, but it didn't ruin the experience. It doesn't tarnish the memory of how we began."

"Why the hell would you bring that up, now?" Turning in place, Starsky clenched his eyes shut, his headache pounding relentlessly in his ears. "That night was wrong. It shouldn't have happened like that," he whispered, struggling to comprehend the truth attached to the muddled memory rising from the depths of his mind.

Years had passed, but time had done nothing to erase the sadness clouding the events that unfolded, or ease the shame of a mistake that never should have been made. They had been partnered for a while, not as cohesive as they would eventually become but already fostering a close knit friendship. Too drunk to drive, he and Hutch had stumbled up the staircase and into the apartment. Starsky had collapsed on the bed, intent on sleeping the night off. But locking the door behind them, Hutch had other plans.

The night had been wrong, forever tarnished by a line that should never have been crossed. They had agreed to never talk about it. Why was Hutch so intent on making him recall it now?

"God, you were so beautiful back then," Hutch said. "Passionate, electric, wild. The first time I was inside of you I knew it wouldn't be the last. I knew then that I would do anything to ensure I kept you by my side. You came over me like an addiction; there was no going back. I was never going to be able to consume someone else the way I could you."

"You didn't consume me," Starsky protested weakly, the disjointed memory overwhelming him, merging irreparably with negative feelings he harbored about other experiences—the terror he had felt in the bunker at the Marcus Compound, what had occurred under the cover of darkness, and the unnerving glistening of Hutch's blue eyes, somehow always gleaming in the moonlight.

That night, holding his hands captive over his head, Hutch had kissed him deeply, hungrily, and when his fingers traveled below Starsky's belt buckle, unzipping his jeans and dominantly pulling them down, Starsky didn't stop him; he couldn't find the words to tell him no.

"I knew what I wanted and I took it," Hutch rumbled. "I didn't care what you had to say, not that you were really capable of saying anything…

"That's not what happened," Starsky whispered, though he wasn't sure of his words. Something about the memory was wrong, but he was helpless to firmly decipher what it was.

"…Isn't it interesting how the smallest things can shape us?" Hutch smiled knowingly. "How everything can change in an instant? How the aftermath of recent traumas can create cracks in the surface of older memories, overcoming and flooding them with doubt? After the time you spent in the darkness, captive to me, how can you trust that your interpretation of anything is the truth? You've changed greatly since that time. In some ways, you're a completely different person than you were back then. You're still beautiful but timid, cagy, and you still like lie to yourself to minimize the pain others leave you with so you don't have to accept the truth of how things really are."

"I don't have a problem admitting the truth," Starsky protested, his words a low groan as his headache demanded his attention. "You're the one who always struggled with that," he growled, pressing his palms against his forehead. The pounding protested his movement, intensifying and reverberating through his skull with what felt like the mechanical force of a jackhammer. "You're the one who likes to lie."

"You're not wrong about that. I didn't like my truth so I created a new one. It's not so surprising that you finally decided to do the same."

"I'm not."

"Come on, you haven't been home in a week, and aside from text messages and short, forced phone calls, you and I haven't spoken. Even Whitley didn't know about me until I imposed my presence upon you."

"I would have told him, eventually."

"You wouldn't have," Hutch snorted, seemingly overjoyed at Starsky's words, as he pointed an accusing index finger. "But, hey, I get it. I didn't like how my family handled my trauma so I erased them from my life."

"That's not what I'm doing."

"Okay." Hutch winked conspiratorially. "But, you know, despite all the unrest between us now, there was a time, not long ago, when I could have you however, wherever, and whenever I pleased." Stalking the across the room, his eyes glistened as he looked Starsky up and down. His stride was long, purposeful, and the gleam in his eyes was unnerving, predatory. "And you wouldn't dare tell me no."

Unclipping his holster, Starsky fingered his gun and flinched, though if the latter reaction was due to Hutch's hasty approach or the pain hammering through his skull, he was unsure. "You don't get to touch me," he whispered, his words sounding weak as his vision blurred and he was overcome with a debilitating sense of wrongness.

Something about this moment was inherently wrong. If the door was locked, how did this Hutch get into the apartment? And how did Starsky get there himself? One moment he was sitting opposite Whitley and the next he was in the apartment bathroom, but Starsky's heart pounded as he realized didn't remember anything in-between.

"You used to love the way I touched you," Hutch whispered, the words low and taunting as he stood before Starsky, their chests inches apart. "You used to love the way I could make you feel. I can make you feel things again. I can give you anything you ask for, you just have to voice the question. You have to say the words."

"I want it to stop," Starsky whispered thickly, and Hutch grinned, a crazed wild smile that extended his face, making it look misshapen, inhuman. Terror rushing through his chest, Starsky took a step back. He knew that smile, and it didn't belong to his Hutch. "I want this to stop. I-I'm dreaming, and I-I want to wake up."

"You're already awake."

"That's not true. That's not possible."

"You're more awake than you've ever been, and I intend to keep you that way."

Starsky inhaled sharply as Hutch lunged, gripping his head, burying his fingers into his hair and flattening his palms on his temples. He screamed as searing pain rushed through his body, beginning at the top of his skull it traveled down his neck and through his spine. Overcome by agony, tears streamed down his cheeks as he felt heat engulf him, incinerating his uniform, boiling his blood, withering his skin, and cooking his muscle until he felt it shift from his bones.

"You can have what you ask for, but if only brave enough to open your eyes," Hutch said tersely, his tone foreign, his words a low hiss. "Only if you're finally strong enough to admit the truth of what you see before you. You must go forward because there is no going back."

"I want to go back!" Starsky screamed, pulling his head from Hutch's dangerous grasp, he forced himself to take a step back, then another, and another. His bones felt fractured, warm fragments clinging together by a thread, groaning and aching with every excruciating move he forced himself to make. He grimaced as his back hit the door, the solidness of the material tugging and tearing his singed skin. The pain was unbearable; he screamed through clenched teeth as Hutch started to laugh, a gritty inhuman sound that rose from the depths of his stomach and filled up the room.

"There is no going back."

Starsky opened his eyes; it couldn't be true. There had to be a way to go back, to return to a time when things were better, a time when he wasn't hostage to nightmares and confusion, a time when Hutch was strong and kind and not reminiscent of the monster standing paces away. Gasping, he turned slightly, frantically unlocking the deadbolt and door guard holding him captive in the room. He had to get out. He couldn't look at Hutch a second longer; he couldn't remain in this place.

"What makes you think that there is a way out?" Hutch asked gleefully. "What makes you think you get to be saved?"

Clutching the doorknob tightly, Starsky turned it swiftly, keeping his eyes locked on Hutch as he backed through the doorway and onto the staircase leading to The Pits. "I don't think I do. I've seen too much to think such a stupid thing now," he whispered. Turning, he reached for the handrail, intent on barreling down the stairs as quickly as his legs would move, but it was gone. He clenched at air as his body shifted forward, sending him falling not down but through the wall incasing the staircase and onto the hard, cold ground.

Dust clouded around him, leaving him gasping for breath, coughing against the grittiness gathering in the depths this throat. Laying on his back, he blinked drunkenly, staring up at a cloud-covered sky.

"What the fuck?" he whispered numbly. He was in an alley; not at the bottom of the enclosed staircase but outside, behind a smaller, decaying bar hidden deep in the underbellies of the city. His eyes set on the vague, neon sign mounted above the bar's dented backdoor, its illuminated blocked lettering casting the alley in an eerie green hue. "The Badlander?"

The darkened alley was foreign, the building more so, but why did he recognize the name? Pulling himself from the ground he stood on unbalanced feet, running his hands over his head and down his chest. His headache was gone and his body was fine, safe and untouched beneath his uniform.

"It's a dream," he said, hoping the words would be enough to calm the sick feeling in his stomach. How could he be standing in the apartment above The Pits, talking to Hutch—No, not Hutch. Someone else. Something else. Something malicious, something evil and vile.—one moment then stumble through the doorway and out into this? "This has to be another dream."

And though he said the words, he knew they weren't true. The ground felt firm beneath his feet; his body warm and comfortable beneath his stained, unsightly uniform; and in his pocket was his iPhone, solid and weighted, vibrating wildly against his thigh. He wasn't dreaming; he was more awake than he had ever been.

His phone ceased vibrating, pausing its frantic movement momentarily before beginning again. Pulling it absently from his pocket, he swiped at the screen, pressing it to his ear without bothering to read who he was speaking to.

"Hello?" he whispered.

"Where are you?" Whitley demanded impatiently, ill-disguised worry weighing down his words.

"Uh."

"Where the hell did you go? You left to go the bathroom and then disappeared. I've been everywhere looking for you."

"I left."

"Of course you left! Where the _fuck_ have you been? Do you have any idea what time it is? Blaine's been crawling up my ass because I don't know where you are, and don't even get me started on how pushy Hutch is. _Jesus_ , Starsky, it would have been really _fucking_ nice if you would have warned me about how intense he can be—"

"I went for a walk," Starsky said absently, paying little mind to the words his partner had said.

"Where?"

"I'm not really sure about that part." Starsky didn't know what had happened to bring him here and any palatable explanation he could think of was swept away with the breeze suddenly fluttering through the alley, riffling through his hair and stealing his attention and settling it on something in the distance.

"Starsky?"

Whitley's voice sounded far away as Starsky lowered his phone to his side, gripping it tightly in the palm of his hand. Gaining speed, the wind hissed, rusting a bag of trash propped next to an overflown garbage can and locking his attention on something laying a patch of darkness paces away. Squinting his eyes, he struggled to decipher what he was seeing, but once he realized what it was he longed to never have looked.

Abandoned, poorly hidden in the trash pile was a body, the charred remains of man.

TBC


	43. Chapter Forty-Three

Lights filled the narrow alleyway, illuminating it with quick rotating red and blue beams. The chatter of people surrounded him, a mixture of voices he didn't recognize, overlapping and indistinguishable—a handful of uniformed officers, the forensics team, a coroner— and one he did. Sitting on the crumbling steps of The Badlander, Starsky cringed as John Blaine's authoritative voice suddenly rose above the rest.

"David," he said, crouching down as he struggled to hold Starsky's skittish gaze. "What happened here?"

"I don't know," Starsky whispered numbly.

"How did you get here?"

"I walked."

Averting his gaze, Starsky focused on the hue of the emergency lights. Though his words weren't quite a lie, they weren't the certain truth either. He had no comfortable explanation for how he had arrived at this foreign place, and no reasonable justification for how or why he had stumbled upon another man's body. He may not have been in possession of all his mental faculties but even he knew it didn't look good. Not for him—or the dead man, his married body charred nearly beyond recognition.

"Okay." Pinching his nose, Blaine inhaled a deep breath, his eyes bulged as held it for a few moments, struggling to maintain his calm demeanor. "What made you come here?"

"I needed some air."

"Eight miles worth?"

"What?"

"Do you remember leaving Whitley?"

"Sure," Starsky lied dazedly.

"David, The Pits is eight miles from here. And this bar," Blaine pointed at the neon sign above them, "isn't exactly the type of place you just stumble across. It's hidden away—and rightfully so—the people who come here are trouble, they aren't looking to be seen. Please help me understand how you ended up here, bud. Why the fuck you would walk through this stretch of the city, alone and in your uniform. Do you have any idea how lucky you are that nothing happened to you? That some punk didn't come and shoot you down just because he could?"

Starsky shrugged, biting his bottom lip as his eyes set on the forensic team in the distance, their faces hidden as they stared at the nameless, scorched body on the ground. Bending down, one reached out a glove-covered hand, running his fingers across an invisible, linear crevice on the body's distorted cheek.

"He doesn't like that," Starsky breathed, absently fingering his scar under his beard as he was overcome by the unpreventable thought.

"What?" Blaine asked, looking uneasily between the body and Starsky.

"He doesn't want anyone to touch him like that. He doesn't like it when people draw attention to his scar."

Eyes widening, Blaine's mouth hung open. "How do you know he has a scar?"

Starsky shook his head. He shouldn't have known what the man looked like, the terror he had felt before his death, or how he had cried—begged and screamed, first to be left alone and set free, then out of agony as his body was set aflame—but he did.

"I didn't cry this time," Starsky whispered, helpless to silence the statement reverberating through his mind in a maddening loop. In an odd way he was happy, relieved that he hadn't reacted to the charred body the way he had to Avery's. Though the circumstances leading to their deaths were dissimilar, the surroundings where he found their respective bodies were too close for comfort.

"This time?" Blaine's face contorted painfully, etching deep lines around his saddened eyes, as he seemingly saw Starsky's filthy uniform for the first time. "David, when was the last time you changed your clothes?"

"You remember the other alley," Starsky said manically as Blaine clenched his knee in a comforting manner. "Where I found Avery last week. You remember, don't you, John? Tell me you remember; I can't be the only one who knows that somebody hid him there."

"I remember," Blaine said softly, though his grieved expression negated the assurance. "You sit tight, okay? Don't talk to anyone. Whitley is on his way; he's going to take you home."

"I don't want to go home," Starsky breathed, soft words that went unheard by Blaine as he stood and joined the uniformed officers standing paces away.

Gaze locked on the movement in distance, Starsky lost track of time. Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard Blaine barking fierce orders and registered the movement of officials around him. He grimaced as the body was moved, then felt a brief surge of panic as it was gently lifted, enveloped in a shiny, black body bag, its absent eyes covered by darkness as it was zipped up, hiding it from the prying eyes of the world.

A rough crowd of people had surrounded the scene. Standing behind the yellow crime scene tape, they spoke amongst themselves, struggling to discern what had happened in the alley, their eyes glistening with curiosity and misplaced excitement.

What right did they have to intrude? Starsky wondered madly. What made them think they could possibly understand what had unfolded, or that they were entitled to impose themselves on his tragic discovery?

A man had died, a pain-filled horrific death. The moment demanded respect— quiet somber recognition—that with cellphones clutched prominently the crowd was certain not to provide. He wanted to scream at them. Grab their phones, smash them on the ground, and demand that they take this moment seriously, that they understand the importance of what was happening, that they honor the horrific events that had taken place and the man whose life had been sacrificed.

But unable to summon the energy to speak or stand, Starsky remained quiet.

He shouldn't have cared what happened to the man, how he died, where his body was transported to, who took pictures of him or why. He shouldn't feel an affinity for the dead—dreadfully, Starsky realized shouldn't feel anything all—but he did. He felt everything; the terror the man had experienced before his death, his confusion, his desperation and frantic will to live as his body was doused in kerosene and ignited. His agony as his skin, blistering and withering, cooked on his bones. And the man's odd acceptance, his sudden fierce desire to die—to do whatever was necessary to escape the pain—as shock overcame him and he exhaled for the last time.

Sitting on the short staircase, Starsky's breath came in cold, shallow gasps. Crippling pain, filled his chest; born from dread and fear, it paralyzed his lungs and sent his mind racing with a horrible irrepressible thought: There was no way out. Eventually, he would end up like this man, his corpse burned beyond recognition, and if not this one, than Matthew Avery, his body sliced up and discarded, forgotten and abandoned, hidden away and shrouded in darkness.

He wrapped his arms around himself as lethargic helplessness overcame him, leaving him feeling small, vulnerable, and afraid. He longed to be somewhere else—a different place in another time—enveloped in warm happiness, surrounded by the resoluteness of everything he once knew. There would be no saving him, no going back; he had come too far to go back now.

And then, out of nowhere, the thought was gone, silenced by the man kneeling before him. His desolated feelings comforted away by feeling of familiar hands, strong and gentle, as they grasped Starsky's cheeks, prompting him to look him in the eye.

"David?" Hutch said softly as Whitley lingered awkwardly behind him, his mouth twisting sorrowfully as he hung his thumbs off his gun-belt and turned his attention to the ground.

If it would have been earlier in the day, Starsky would have pulled from Hutch's touch, captive to scandalized embarrassment, he would have responded to his husband's inquiry with a heated retort. But it wasn't, and too much had happened now to ignore his fear or veil his confusion with anger. Contrary to when he appeared earlier, Hutch's presence was comforting, welcome and grounding, because this Hutch was vastly different than the one Starsky had previously seen.

"You okay?" Hutch asked gently, his eyes wide with concern.

"I didn't cry this time," Starsky whispered, helplessly hoping the declaration would be properly acknowledged, as he numbly repeated the small victory he was struggling to hold on to. He wasn't okay, they both knew that.

"Yeah?" Hutch said, his voice soft and encouraging, smoothing his palms over Starsky's head, down his neck, over his shoulders and chest. Slow and mechanical, the movement was purposeful; a calm, quiet verification that Starsky was indeed, seemingly, physically unharmed.

"I wanted to," Starsky whispered thickly, his eyes full of unshed tears. "But I didn't."

"That's great, buddy." Hutch smiled, his enthusiasm forced. "I hear you went for one hell of a walk, too. How about we get out of here, huh? And you can tell me all about it, what you've been doing and why you disappeared this afternoon."

Whitley's head snapped up. "But I'm supposed to..." he protested, hesitating as Hutch scowled at him. "Blaine told _me_ to keep an eye on him. He wants _me_ to take him home."

"That's not happening," Hutch snorted. His eyes flickered protectively as he looked Whitley up and down. "He's not going anywhere with you."

"But he's my partner," Whitley challenged stubbornly. "I'm obligated to make sure he's okay."

"Back off, Whitley; he's not your responsibility. Lucky for you, because you're not doing such a _fantastic_ job keeping track of him," Hutch snapped, the terse words a beginning of an argument, or, perhaps, the continuation of one that never ended.

For a moment, Starsky wondered what the scene had looked like—the harsh and demanding words that had been exchanged between the two men in front of him—when Hutch had arrived at The Pits intent on seeing Starsky only to find Whitley clueless to where he had gone. Hutch would have been angry, demanding, a little volatile, but Whitley wouldn't have been pushed around easily. He would have held his ground, matching Hutch's intensity with his own. He would have had to, Starsky mused humorlessly; it was the only way Hutch would have tolerated his company. The only way to explain their sudden arrival and accept their joint presence as they towered over him, engaging in some strange tug-of-war over who would be entrusted to ensure his well-being.

"Hey, I found him, didn't I?" Whitley huffed.

"I never would have lost him!"

"Oh, bullshit!" Whitley spat. Taking a step forward, he pointed an accusing finger at Hutch. "Don't flatter yourself. You think that because I didn't know you when you were a cop that I don't know who you are, that I haven't heard the stories of what _you_ did?"

"Stop," Starsky breathed weakly as Hutch's face darkened with rage. His life was difficult enough, public disagreements between his current partner and his husband—the unavoidable tension such an event would leave him contending with—he didn't need.

"His whole life is different because of you and your inability to do your job, to properly take care of the one person you should have known how to protect," Whitley continued, impervious to Starsky's protest—and mounting discomfort. "So I didn't know where he was for an afternoon, you lost him for days! I'm already doing a better job taking care of him than you ever have. I'm a better partner to him than you ever were…"

"Stop!" Starsky repeated hoarsely, clutching at air as Hutch stood rapidly, towering in front of Whitley. Work and home—Whitley and Hutch—Starsky had returned to Bay City PD intent on keeping his two worlds apart, but they were destined to collide, resulting in an inevitable implosion. They couldn't sustain the damage of this tumultuous moment. The conversation had already gone too far. Their words were crossing an invisible line of polite appropriateness, deviating towards grievances and attitudes impossible to repair.

"You sure have a lot of opinions for someone who doesn't know shit about me, or him for that matter," Hutch growled.

"Hutch, _please_ ," Starsky pleaded. Standing to grasp his husband's forearm, his panicked gaze set on Blaine and the officers in the distance. They weren't paying attention to the unfolding argument, but that was certain to change if it escalated. "He doesn't know you, okay? He doesn't know me—"

"You think I don't know how tense things are between the two of you?" Whitley said crassly, holding Hutch's fierce gaze with his own. "You think I don't know how it is? He doesn't talk about you, man. _Shit_ , he hasn't even been living in your house, and in case you don't remember it was my phone call he answered, not yours!"

Raising his arm, Hutch lunged as Whitley took a step back. "Why you little—"

"Stop!" Grabbing Hutch's extended hand in his palms, Starsky held firm, desperately preventing his husband from making yet another irreparable mistake. "What are you doing?" he pleaded, his voice wavering tearfully as Hutch looked at him. "Are you fucking crazy? This place is crawling with cops. You're a civilian, you hit him and that's assaulting a police officer. Do you have any idea what could happen to you, what Blaine would do to you?"

"I'm sorry," Hutch said quietly, his face sinking with regret. Entwining his fingers tightly around Starsky's own, he squeezed apologetically. "Buddy, I'm sorry; I didn't think."

"Obviously," Whitley grunted.

"You're not helping," Starsky whispered, staring forlornly at his partner. While noble enough, Whitley's concern was senseless, unproportioned. Foolish. His partner's worry wasn't born from attachment—the fierce bond of a close-knit partnership—it was fueled by awkward youth, unexplained duty, and, perhaps, a little fear. Starsky was Blaine's favorite; if Whitley wanted to succeed professionally he needed to play by their superior's rules—and now the rule was to keep tabs on Starsky, to run interference when things became too much. "I know you want to, but you're not."

"I'm sorry, partner," Whitley said genuinely, punctuating his words with a nod. "What are you going to do? Blaine wants me to take you home, are you going to let me?"

Feeling Hutch's grip tighten on his hand, Starsky looked nervously between them—and for a moment he was too paralyzed to reason what to do. Leaving with Whitley now meant displaying an unbrokenness he knew he could never properly feign. But leaving with Hutch meant giving into his helplessness, letting his exhausted confusion overwhelm him, allowing himself to seek comfort in someone else for a while. With Hutch he didn't need to think, he didn't need to worry about anything. His husband wouldn't ask questions and he wouldn't require him to be anything but what he was.

"No," Starsky said. "You go on, check in with Blaine, and then get back to our beat. You didn't choose any of this. I'm not your responsibility; it isn't your job to look after me."

Xx

"When was the last time you took a shower?" Hutch asked. Sitting in the driver's seat of his pick-up truck he held Starsky's hand tightly and peered at him out of the corner of his eyes. "When was the last time you slept?"

Resting the side of his head against the tinted passenger window, Starsky ignored the question—yet another he didn't know how to answer. The comfort of Hutch's presence had nearly dissolved, beginning to slowly ebb the moment the first exploratory question escaped his mouth. Though Starsky knew the questions were necessary—purposeful and predictable—it didn't ease his bitter irritation or calm his building apprehension as he remained painfully unable to recall the simple information Hutch was attempting to verify.

"You know, some words would be nice," Hutch said playfully. "It's been a while since we've had a conversation, and I would _love_ to hear your voice. Besides, body language can be iffy, hard to interpret because it's subjective. You could be shrugging because you're tired and you want me to shut up, but I could think it was because you didn't know the answer to my question, and that would only make me worry and ask _even_ more questions."

"I haven't slept a lot," Starsky conceded, softly confiding the only information he was certain of. "You didn't give me the sleeping pills, remember?"

"That was a week ago. You're telling me you haven't slept in a week? _Jesus_ , no wonder you're having a hard time."

"I am not having _a hard time_."

"Have you been taking the other pills like you're supposed to?"

"Of course." But Starsky couldn't recall if he had been taking them. If Hutch checked his prescription bottles, counted the pills they contained—as he often did—would they be missing the proper number? Would they reinforce the truth of his words, or confirm another lie? "Don't you trust me?"

"Of course, I trust you."

"Could have fooled me," Starsky muttered. "Stop interrogating me."

"I'm not interrogating you," Hutch laughed. "How'd you end up in that alley?"

"I walked."

"That's a long walk. Huggy said he saw you heading the apartment above the bar but when we checked up there you were gone. You can't get outside from up there, and nobody saw you leave; we checked the security footage and there's no record of you leaving the building. How'd you pull off your great escape? How did you sneak out unseen?"

Starsky grimaced painfully; he didn't couldn't explain his exit from The Pits or his arrival at The Badlander—what he had felt or seen or anything that had happened in between—nor did he want to think about it now. His thoughts were consumed, weighted by his lingering concern for the body he had discovered hours ago. The scorched remains had etched themselves into his mind, filling him with anxiety, a full-bodied dread that refused to be ignored. What had happened to the body and where was it now?

"Why did you leave the apartment, anyway?" Hutch probed. "Whitley didn't know it existed and Huggy wouldn't have kicked you out. You could have stayed there, watched TV, maybe taken a nap, done something that was going to help you feel better rather than worse."

"Who says I feel worse?"

"Well, I certainly hope you felt better beginning this day than you do now. Why did you leave Huggy's, David? What made you take that walk?"

"I just couldn't stay there," Starsky said uneasily.

"Why not?"

 _Because someone wanted me to leave; something wanted me somewhere else_ , Starsky wanted to say _._ Not that he hadn't wanted to go, there were too many memories lurking in the apartment to stay. Muddled and confused images that he didn't have the courage to accept or the energy to deny. "Where are we going?" he asked, deflecting the uncomfortable question by asking his own.

"Home. You look terrible; you're going to take a shower and then you're going to go to bed until you feel better."

" _No_." Starsky grimaced. Feeling a surge of panic, he pulled his hand from Hutch's grasp. He couldn't go home; he refused to ruin his extended absence or ignore his fierce determination to stay away so easily. "I can't go there; I don't want to."

"Why not?"

Starsky shook his head, grasping for a solid, rational reason to explain his continued—adamant—avoidance of their home. "Lucky isn't there!" he exclaimed, the words too loud, his tone too manic for the reasoning to be believed. Their beloved dog wasn't in their home—rather anxiously awaiting his return at Rosie and Al's—but someone else still was. "And I won't go home if _he's_ still there! You won't be able to get me through the front door!"

" _Shit_ ," Hutch swore under his breath. Rubbing his hand over his neck, he cringed painfully, stifling a disappointed groan before continuing in an even voice, "You've been gone a week and suddenly we're back to this? How can you become so fixated on such a small detail in such a short amount of time?"

But it wasn't a small detail; the addition of a third party to their living arrangements was a much larger deal than either of them normally cared to admit. "He's a stranger," Starsky whispered obstinately, devastated frustration gathering in his stomach. This was an old argument—fueled by exhaustion and compulsive fear—he knew that, and, worse, Hutch knew it too.

"Sweetheart, Jack has been living with us for _months_. He can't be a stranger, not after all this time. And we agreed, remember? You and I, we sat down before he moved in, had a long conversation, and we agreed it would be in the best interest—"

"You agreed; I didn't agree!"

" _David_."

Starsky's heart dropped as Hutch assessed him warily but the threat of what his husband knew—or the impending complications of the details he had to be piecing together—weren't enough to calm his fear. "You can't make me go there."

"But it's _your_ home, not Jack's."

"I don't care. I can't do it. Not today. I can't and I won't. I chose you over Whitley because I wanted you to make me feel better but you're making things worse—you're just making me feel _worse_."

"Okay, okay," Hutch soothed deeply. "I'm sorry. I'll take you to Rosie and Al's, again. Not that it's going to do a damn bit of good. When were you going tell me things weren't going well? When were you going to mention that you had begun struggling again?

"You would have known," Starsky said, his soft voice accusing as his throat tightened and his jaw burned against irrepressible tears. "If you would have had the guts to stick around."

Hutch reached out a comforting hand and Starsky pulled his away, wiping angrily at his tears before wrapping his arms protectively around his chest. He didn't cry coming upon the body in the alley, and he refused to lose his resolve now.

"I didn't leave you at Rosie and Al's because I wanted to. I tried to bring you home, you didn't want to come, and you were the one who didn't want me around." Breaking at a red light, Hutch grasped the steering wheel tightly. "I was trying to respect your wishes; I was trying to give you some space to succeed on your own. I was giving you what you wanted. I'm sorry for not realizing that you needed me around to ensure you slept enough and to tell you change your damn clothes."

"Since when do you give a shit about what I want?"

"I always care about what you want. I'm doing the best I can, okay? Christ, I don't know how to deal with any of this, either. I don't know how to fix it or make it better, or even if we can. But I do know that I can't help you if you don't let me. I can't properly support you if you keep pushing me away. What about Rosie and Al?"

"What about them?"

"Have you been avoiding them, too?"

"Of course not.'

"You have to be. David, there is no way if either of them saw you that they'd let you leave the house. They would have called, they would have said something to me. What have you been doing this past week? Hiding yourself in your bedroom when you're not at work?"

Inhaling a shaky breath, Starsky longed for Hutch to drop the subject, to quietly accept his worrisome, neglectful behavior without drawing attention to the complicated feelings creating it. "Please, let it go," he whispered. He ignored the way Hutch was looking at him, the frightening gleam glistening in his eyes. "I'm too tired to get into any of this now."

"Well, that's not new," Hutch snorted. "You've been too tired to handle much of anything since you went back to that fucking job. Do you even see how much it's changing you? How much unnecessary stress it's invited into our life? Maybe your uncle was right, maybe it was a bad idea for you to go back."

"I said drop it," Starsky whispered desolately. "I'm not going to talk about it anymore."

"You want to drop it, fine. I'll drop it. But it's not going to change the truth. Soon or later you will have to deal with what's happening around you." Exhaling heartily, Hutch nodded stubbornly. "Where's your car?" he asked, his eyes locked on the street ahead of them as the light turned green.

Face contorting, Starsky struggled to recall the proper answer to the question. The morning was fragmented, fractured into small disordered snippets, peppered with the mangled image of Avery, the incessant pounding of his head, and discovering the charred remains of the man—yet another person who had shared his distinct scar.

"I didn't see it at Huggy's, did you leave it sitting somewhere?" Hutch continued evenly. "Do we need to have Jack— _Huggy_ —pick it up?"

"No…?"

"Are you sure? I don't care if it's sitting in the lot at Metro, that's probably the safest place to leave it, but if it's somewhere else we need to get it. It's in too nice of condition to leave unattended overnight."

"I know."

"Well, where is it?"

Starsky scowled as the answer to the question seemed unattainable—erased by the events of the day, buried too deep in the depths of his mind to readily recall.

"Have you been driving to work or getting rides from Blaine and Whitley?" Hutch prompted.

"No... I think... I think I drove this morning."

"You think or you know?"

"I know."

"Okay, so the Camaro is parked at Metro then?" Hutch glanced at Starsky, awaiting a quick answer that never came. "David?"

"Yeah... it's there." Pressing his palms against his forehead, Starsky inhaled deeply, struggling to clear his confusion and calm his worry. It didn't work, and feeling overwhelmed and exhausted, he looked numbly out the window.

What had he been doing prior to finding the body? How had he gotten to work this morning? How had he even gotten out of bed?

"How's your head feeling?" Hutch asked.

"What?"

"Whitley said you had migraine, is it still bothering you?"

"No. It... It went away."

"Just like that?" Hutch frowned.

"Yeah."

"That's strange. Did you take something?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know or you don't remember?"

"I don't remember," Starsky whispered uneasily.

If Hutch's probing questions were a covert test—a secret gauging of his current mental stability—Starsky hoped he was passing. It wasn't until they pulled up in front of Rosie and Al's house and he set his eyes on his beloved Camaro parked safely in the driveway that he realized how horribly he had failed.

TBC


	44. Chapter Forty-Four

"I want all of your dirty clothes in a pile outside the door," Hutch said. Standing in the middle of Rosie and Al's spare bathroom, he moved his hand in an impatient manner as he recited an order that hadn't been necessary in months. "Including your boxer shorts."

Starsky grasped the sleeves of his dirty uniform protectively, opening his mouth to protest the firm instruction.

"I mean it," Hutch continued. "That inform is _disgusting_. I can't believe Blaine didn't make you change, or send you home."

Grinding his jaw nervously, Starsky stared absently at the tile floor. "I don't see him much; I'm trapped in the passenger seat these days, remember?"

Hutch looked surprised. "You don't insist on driving that black and white?"

" _Whitley's_ black and white. It's not my car," Starsky whispered, softly reciting the ancient rubric he and Hutch had adhered to during the years of their partnership. "Owner drives, passenger picks the music, remember?"

"How could I forget? But the black and white is a squad car, David, it doesn't belong to anyone."

But it did. The car and Whitley had been a package deal. An elaborate, undeserved, gratuitous gift from John Blaine. "Whitley's been in that car for almost three years, it's more his than it'll ever be mine."

"Do you want it to be yours?"

Starsky shrugged dejectedly. He had never wanted the car or Whitley; all he had wanted was a chance to reclaim what he had lost, something, that now, he was beginning to realize was gone for good. He wanted Hutch—the old Hutch—a moody cop shrouded in lies; their old home, the beach house that had once been so familiar and safe; and their old jobs under Dobey in the Zebra Unit, where they were a happy, successful team. But none of that existed now, a hard truth to admit as it was accompanied by another: he would never forgive this Hutch for what he had done.

"You probably shouldn't," Hutch said.

Gaze snapping up, Starsky's face contorted as he was suddenly convinced that Hutch knew what he was thinking.

"I wouldn't, either," Hutch continued. "Whitley's a pain in the ass; I don't know how you put up with him. Could you imagine what a career sitting next to him would be like? Jesus, I had to spend the afternoon with him and that was too much."

"He's not terrible."

"He's not great." Hutch's face darkened. "I can't believe his nerve. Somebody ought to teach him a thing or two about police etiquette, or some manners in general. You should have heard the way he was talking to me when I showed up looking for you. He acted like I wasn't entitled to know where you were. That little shit is lucky I'm not a cop anymore; he would have been sitting on his ass in that alley, if I still had a badge."

 _But you don't_ , Starsky wanted to say. _And everything is different now. Nothing's the same and what we had we can never get back_. "You're just jealous. It wouldn't matter who my partner was, you would find some reason to hate them because they aren't you. But the jokes really on you, because Whitley is my partner but I'm your responsibly. He gets to leave at the end of the day and you're stuck cleaning up all this bull-shit and dealing with the worst parts of me."

"Are you kidding?" Hutch snorted. "Who's stuck?"

"You."

"I don't see it that way."

"How could you not?"

"We took vows, remember? For better or worse, and while this moment may be worse, I refuse to believe it won't get better."

"What if it doesn't?"

"What if it does?"

Opening his mouth to protest the question, Starsky shrugged instead. He didn't have the energy to continue the conversation, or the desire to agree with or contest his husband's fierce point-of-view. "I'm tired," he whispered, sinking heavily to sit on the closed toilet seat.

"I know," Hutch said, squeezing his shoulders empathetically. Slipping into old roles easily, he moved expertly around the small bathroom, ensuring there was a clean towel on the rack and pulling back the shower curtain to ensure Starsky had the necessary items at his disposal. "Ugh, Axe body wash?" His face contorted with good-natured disgust. "No wonder you had an aversion to showering this week."

"It's not mine."

"Then whose is it? This is the spare bathroom, you're the only one who showers in here."

"I didn't buy it."

"It's yours," Hutch laughed. "You just don't want to admit you occasionally like to smell like an overly-fragrant-pubescent boy."

"I do not," Starsky whispered, a hint of indignation in his tone. It was his—they both knew that—but the banter was nice. Familiar. Comforting. Distracting.

"Whatever you say," Hutch said in a sing-song tone. Moving to the sink he dug through the medicine cabinet and handed Starsky a bar of less-offending soap. "Use this instead. Your aunt and uncle's nostrils will thank you and so will your skin."

"I didn't know this was here."

"Apparently, you forgot a lot things were here."

Holding the soap to his nose, Starsky inhaled deeply, breathing in the welcome scent—almond and oatmeal with only a hint of high-priced pretension. Not that it was expensive—it wasn't—but the natural ingredients made it difficult to buy just anywhere, and Hutch's preferred brand of soap was yet another grocery list item obtained at the health-food store. The scent awakened a stockpile of dormant memories, and he was assaulted by a flurry of images of happier and easier times, when Hutch's childhood trauma had been a deeply buried secret and Simon Marcus a stranger, his rumored conquests and powers no more than hearsay, hushed cautionary tales to trade over a campfire.

And then, just as suddenly as they had emerged, the happy memories were gone, replaced by a cluster of sadness and apprehension. His obstinate reasoning for not returning to the home he shared with Hutch and Mitchell—for seeking respite at his aunt and uncle's house instead—had quickly been proven to be a farce. They had arrived to find the house quiet and Lucky absent. The social Dalmatian had accompanied Uncle Al to the car lot for the duration of the work day—as he had been all week—something Starsky was certain he had been aware of but not eager to disclose at the time.

But even so, Hutch hadn't pressed Starsky to go home, though, eventually, he would. And when he did, the suggestion would be carefully proposed. He would wait until Starsky was taken care of—cleaned up and more comfortable and relaxed than he appeared now. And when the night crept in and Starsky was begging him to stay, Hutch would deliver the calm ultimatum that had been said so many times before: _If you want to be around me, sweetheart, then you're going to have to come home. That's the deal, remember? The rule we all agreed to abide by when you started needing to spend sporadic nights away from home._

He wouldn't be wrong, Starsky thought sadly, not when re-introducing the rule and not when forcing them both to abide by it. And he and Hutch weren't the only two people who had been involved in creating the staunch regulation—or a handful of others that they were bound to revert back to now that everything seemed to be going so wrong, again. Feeling overwhelmed by the prospect, Starsky closed his eyes, then stifled a sharp gasp as he was assaulted by image of the charred body he discovered in the alley.

"You okay?" Hutch asked as he rummaged through the open medicine cabinet.

"Yeah."

Squeezing his eyelids together tightly, Starsky forced himself to consider the charred man. He wasn't like Avery; Starsky hadn't felt the deep, unsettling affinity for Avery's mangled body the way he did this man, though he wasn't quite sure why. Perhaps, it was because he had been directed to Avery by normal means—responding to a request from dispatch—or maybe it was because, despite the peculiarity of what he had seen, he had been accompanied to the crime scene by Whitley.

The charred body was different. He hadn't been told something had been abandoned behind the Badlander—he hadn't been told to go there at all. Someone had led him there. Blindly ushering him from the apartment above The Pits, it had brought him there; something had wanted him to know what had been done.

The shaking of prescriptions bottles filled Starsky's ears, followed by the tell-tale pop of twin caps, a rustling of pills, and Hutch's hearty sigh.

"Well, that's just _fucking_ great," Hutch murmured exasperatedly, and Starsky opened his eyes. Placing the bottles on the cabinet shelf, he clutched the sides of the sink and hung his head. "Tell me you tried to keep it together this time," he whispered, a hint of pleading in his tone. "Tell me you didn't skip the pills this week out of spite, that you actually _tried_ to remember to take them."

"I tried," Starsky said, though he wondered if he really had. The week was a blur; a tired, fragmented clump of pain, confusion, and numbness. When was the last time he had taken a shower, or slept, or ate? What was the truth, and what difference did any of it make, now? Today he been led to a body. Where would he be taken tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that? What would he see when he finally slept; what dormant truth would be waiting to assault him in his dreams?

"Don't lie…"

"I'm not."

"…I told you, you didn't have to lie to me."

"I know. But I'm not."

" _David_ —"

"I'm not!"

"Okay," Hutch sighed, his hands holding the sink in a white-knuckle grip. "It's fine. It's all going to be _just fine_." He forced a deep inhale, then a smile as he reached for the electric beard trimmer. "How about we clean up that beard, huh, get you looking a little more presentable before Blaine decides to make an issue out of it?"

Abandoning the bar of soap on the edge of the tub, Starsky felt a pang of regret as Hutch drew attention to this specific overlooked routine. He just hadn't had the energy—the mental capacity or desire—to care about such a thing. He knew it wasn't right, but the feelings motivating his lack of action were confused, questionable, embarrassing, and intensifying. The hair was the only thing preventing people from seeing his scar— the only thing keeping him from being the victim of misplaced attention and stares. He needed the beard, it was the only way to hide what had happened, the only way to disguise how he truly felt.

"How short do you want to go?" Hutch asked, the question accompanied by a sharp grinding noise of the electric beard trimmer in his hand.

Running a palm over his cheeks, Starsky considered his options and the circular dial on the side of the trimmer, displaying the choices of trimming length in tiny millimeters ranging from one to ten. "Three," he said.

"How about one?"

"That's too short to hide anything. I may as well be clean shaven."

"Three isn't going to fly with Blaine. And, really, if you're dead-set on three then you may as well not cut it at all. It's unruly but it's not that long."

"Two then," Starsky said, cutting the difference as his fingers worried the length of his scar.

"Don't do that," Hutch chastised, pulling Starsky's hand away. "Didn't your mom ever tell you not to pick at your scars?"

"No. She was more of the don't-go-outside-without-your-tinfoil-hat type." Though meant as a joke, the words fell flat and so did Starsky's fragile mood. "That's not really funny, I guess," he whispered guiltily. Overcome by exhaustion and shame, he felt a sudden sad comradery with his mother, a deeper understanding of her unstable behavior and struggles. He may not wear tinfoil hats, but he couldn't seem to change his clothes, and he had become haunted by visions of things he couldn't explain—nightmarish versions of his mother and Hutch and the mangled image of Avery's body—things better left alone. "Considering everything, I suppose it is kind of cruel."

Kneeling in front of Starsky, Hutch grasped his chin, aligning his jaw at the perfect height before beginning to slowly and proficiently trim his beard. "Did your mom really make you wear tinfoil hats?"

"Yeah."

"And you actually went out in public like that?"

"Of course, I did. Only in the apartment hallways, though. She didn't let us go any further than that. She was always afraid something would happen if we went outside. God forbid we turn into _one of them_."

"What did your dad say about that?"

"Nothing. He was dead," Starsky said flatly, pushing the painful memories to the back of his mind. There was little point to dwelling on them now. "Did your mom give you any wisdom to live by?"

"Only the overused phrase I just said to you. Well, that and I suppose she did teach me how to mix the perfect Old Fashioned by the time I was nine. Though, that particular piece of wisdom hasn't proven be very useful in my adult life." Hutch's face contorted with angry disgust. "She used drink that shit by the gallon—still does. I'm surprised she hasn't died of liver failure; although, with her stubborn contempt she'll probably outlive us all."

"Don't pick at your scars," Starsky said, Emily Hutchinson's words lingering in his mind like a familiar song.

"Hey, that's good," Hutch laughed.

"What?"

"You used it just she likes to, as a not-so-subtle reminder to ignore how people make you feel, to forget the pain their bad behavior left you with. You know, it really is sage advice, but not from a person like her. Not from someone who uses it as an ominous threat to not look too closely at the things that hurt you, or the scars you carry from the past for the sole reason that the people around you can't handle the truth, or admit the horrendous nature of the things they see."

"She was mean to you," Starsky said simply. Captive to the odd calmness of the moment, he reached out his hand, burrowing his fingers into Hutch's short blond hair. He needed to soften the pain of the past somehow, to make it less influential than it been allowed to become. They had never spoken this freely about Hutch's family before—or his own childhood for that matter. An unwelcome chill ran through his body as he recalled Mitchell's disclosure about Hutch's mother. _S_ _he was awful. Callous and cruel. She treated Cam like some dirty secret. She never did forgive him for what he had "made her" brother do._

Looking earnestly up at Starsky, Hutch pulled his hand away, placing kiss on his husband's palm before switching the beard trimmer off and standing with a groan. "Mean is an understatement," he sighed, the words almost too soft to hear, nearly canceled out by the sudden rush of water and the sharpness of the trimmer hitting the side of the sink as he tapped out the excess hair with excessive force.

"I'm sorry," Starsky breathed. And he was, though he wasn't certain why. Was he more remorseful because of how Emily Hutchinson had chosen to treat her son, or because he didn't have the courage to hear more details about Hutch's childhood than he already knew? It was too painful to know what physical abuse his husband had suffered at the hands of his uncle, to have hints of the emotional abuse he had endured from his mother for years after, he couldn't bear being privy to more. How could he hold Hutch responsible for anything? How could he allow himself to be so inexplicably cruel to someone who was never taught how to properly love?

"It's alright," Hutch said. "You're not responsible for the past. The only thing you can control is the future."

"My future or ours?"

"What makes you think those two things are mutually exclusive?" Wiping the beard trimmer with the hand towel hanging on the wall next to the sink, Hutch put it in the medicine cabinet and carefully closed the door. His expression was solid, frozen in a combination of too many emotions to fully decipher, as he stared at Starsky through the reflection in the mirror. "After everything we've been through, together and apart, what makes you think that either of us can survive without each other?"

Shrugging numbly, Starsky's face contorted with confusion and grief. So many things had changed since Simon Marcus had died but one thing had remained the same, and out of all the things he had lost one thing seemed determined to never be misplaced. Though if the survival of their relationship was motivated by pure affection or sinister duty, Starsky remained achingly unsure.

Eyes glistening, Hutch smiled sadly as he moved to the shower. "There's real darkness in the world, David. Malevolence doesn't always hide in dim corners or reside in bunkers waiting for the right person to stumble across it; it exists right out in the open. People can be evil too, some develop their wickedness over time and others are just born that way. The danger is not knowing the difference between the two, of not having the strength to admit when you know someone has changed, and not having the courage to distance yourself from the ones who hurt you." Pulling back the curtain, he leaned into the shower, turning the nozzle and sticking his opposite hand under the spray of water, testing and adjusting the hotness until it was just right. "Can I trust you to keep this at a safe temperature?"

"Yes."

Tilting his head, Hutch's brows rose, his skeptical expression demanding the truth.

"I'll try," Starsky amended softly.

Xx

The spray of the shower beat down on him. Hot, sharp droplets of water that felt as though they were tiny knives piercing his skin. The showerhead was terrible, impossible to adjust, and coupled with an old water softener the resulting pressure was much too high. The spray was jolting and biting, not that Starsky minded the pain—he didn't. It was welcome. Cathartic. It gave him something to focus on other than Hutch's haunting words and dread threatening to engulf him.

Stomach churning, his hands shook as nauseated exhaustion overwhelmed him, intermixing with his pounding heart. He couldn't handle many more days like this. All he wanted was for his confusion to ebb, for Avery's disfigured body and the nameless corpse he had found that afternoon to be erased from the depths of his mind, and for Hutch to stop standing on the sideline and cease his distant—almost unemotional—observation of his decline. He had picked Starsky up from the crime scene, but his presence had done nothing comfort his husband's distress. He had delivered Starsky to the safety of Al and Rosie's house but the action had done nothing to ease the strain that had settled between them.

Pressing his hands to the shower wall, Starsky's eyes set on the silver wedding band on his finger. He hadn't taken it off since Hutch had placed it there. He had been afraid that doing so would suddenly awaken him from his current perceived reality, leaving him devastated as he found that such a defining moment had been nothing more than a dream. But somehow never liberating himself from the item only reinforced his worst fear. The ring was a lie, a failed attempt by Hutch to keep him from drifting further away than he already was. Hutch didn't know how to save him, any more than Starsky knew how to save himself.

Closing his eyes, Starsky bowed his head and inhaled a series of deep breaths as the water rushed over him. Hitting the crown of his head fiercely, it moved rapidly, trailing down his face, over his neck and shoulders. Tearing at the cut on the side of his head, it pinched and pulled at the scab until it broke from his skin, falling into tiny pieces that were quickly engulfed by the water pooling in the bottom of the bathtub.

He grimaced as the water pierced the now open wound, but he forced himself not to move. The pain was good. Grounding. He couldn't control Hutch—what he had done or how he chose to conduct himself now—he couldn't control his career, what happened when he was unaware of himself, or the images he saw in his dreams. But he could control _this_ moment; he control _this_ pain.

He remained like that for a while. Forcing deep chested breaths and refusing to open his eyes. But, wandering, his thoughts betrayed him, reminding him of all the things better left unconsidered and all the questions left unanswered.

What happened to Matthew Avery, and the man whose body he had discovered today? What had led him to the bodies and where it lead him tomorrow, or the day after that? Why did Avery and the burned man share his scar?

 _Don't pick at your scars_ , the melodic pounding of the water seemed to say. _You won't like what you see._

Reaching down, he grasped the circular facet tightly. He could turn it, increase the water temperature until it burned his skin, giving him something else to consider, erasing the weight of things better left alone. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. The complications of doing such a thing promised to outweigh the brief respite the action would bring. His Aunt and Uncle would be home soon, and surely Hutch was waiting for him. If he emerged from the shower, his skin red, puckered, and burned he couldn't explain the feelings that had led him to make such a damaging decision—he didn't want to—and he couldn't handle the way he knew his family would look at him. He couldn't stomach the pain in their eyes, or the conversation that would inevitably follow.

 _You're not doing well, David,_ Aunt Rosie would say—as she had a handful of times before. _We know it, and we think you know it, too._

 _We're worried about you,_ Uncle Al would say, his voice gruff and gentle as his quiet words reinforced those of his wife. Maybe he would grasp Starsky's shoulder, or his knee if they were sitting next to each other.

Hutch wouldn't touch him. Leaning against a wall of whatever room they occupied, averting his eyes, he wouldn't say a word, and Starsky would know that they would talk later—though there wouldn't be much to say—when they were alone, trapped in the claustrophobic confines Hutch's oversized pick-up truck. Their conversation would be forced, awkward but brutal. Hutch would apologize too many times to count and Starsky would ignore each guilty word as it spilled from his husband's mouth.

 _It'll be better next time; we'll both do better next time,_ Hutch would vow, holding Starsky tightly to his chest as they stood in another sterile admissions suit of another facility. _This isn't the end, but a new beginning, another opportunity to get things right._

No, it wouldn't be the end of them—their relationship or their marriage—but it would be the end of something else. Another hospital visit—no matter how needed—would put an end to Starsky's career.

He opened his eyes as the water turned cold, shocking his system and enveloping his body with cold chills as he stared blankly at the shower wall. Even though he was certain he couldn't explain the depth of his pain or the vastness of his fear and confusion, he knew he couldn't handle another family discussion like that—he couldn't stomach another hospital stay or the thought of losing his beloved career. He was stronger than this, wasn't he? He wasn't sick like his mother—Doctor Evans had told him so.

But what was happening to him?

Why couldn't he control the disturbing feelings engulfing him, why couldn't he calm his nightmares or reason away the visons of the bodies he had found? And why couldn't he recall the answer to the most devastating question of all: What had happened in the apartment above The Pits, this afternoon and years before?

Hutch had left and then he had come back, but what had he taken with him and what had had he allowed to accompany him when he returned? What had he done while captive to Simon Marcus and what he chosen to do on his own?

 _Don't pick at your scars_ , the water hissed. _You can't tolerate the horrific truth._

Pressing his forehead to the shower wall, Starsky shook his head helplessly as he dissolved into sobs. He couldn't go forward and he couldn't go back. He was haunted by everything he didn't know and the only thing he was certain of: He would never get better if he remained intent on ignoring the past.

Xx

Towel wrapped tightly around his waist, Starsky strode slowly toward his childhood bedroom. His footsteps were inaudible, perfectly contradicting the frantic pace of his heartbeat as it pounded in his chest.

Back turned, Hutch's shoulders were sunken, his attention focused on something held in his hands. A small pile of clean clothes rested on the end of the bed. He had cleaned the room—Starsky realized absently—something that was both comforting and startling; Hutch never cleaned under normal circumstances—at least not without ample prompting—and choosing to do so now was symptomatic of something else. He had straightened the items on the nightstand, pulled the covers neatly over the bed, and gathered Starsky's sporadic dirty laundry—what little there was—compiling it and the soiled uniform into a small, open duffle bag on the floor. The sudden tidiness of the bedroom was definite indication that he wasn't feeling as certain or accepting as he wanted the world to believe.

" _Fuck_ ," Hutch swore sadly, his voice heavy with exhaustion and a hint of grief, as he threw the dirty undershirt on top of the duffle.

Lingering in the doorway, Starsky grimaced; once white, the shirt was pitted and sweat-stained, speckled and discolored around the collar with dried blood. It was the undershirt shirt he had been wearing the day he discovered Avery's body, yet another item of clothing he hadn't been able to bring himself to take off.

"How did we get here?" Hutch whispered, the haunted question directed to the empty room and voiceless walls, as he planted his hands on his hips and hung his head. "How the fuck do we keep ending up _here_?"

"Hutch?" Starsky asked softly. His hands protectively gripped the top of the towel covering the lower half of his body as Hutch turned and assessed him with wide eyes.

"How long have you been standing there?"

"I need to ask you a question, and I need you to be completely honest. Even if… even if it was something you did wrong."

"You can ask me anything, sweetheart, you know that."

"When I was walking today, I remembered something…" Licking his lips, Starsky swallowed dryly, searching for the right words and the courage to voice the question he was sure he didn't want to know the answer to.

"Yeah?" Closing the gap between them, Hutch smiled encouragingly. "Tell me about it."

"It was the first night, when we were in the room above Huggy's. Do you remember that night?"

"What made you think of that? That's an odd memory to be suddenly preoccupied with. We're promised never to talk about it, remember?"

"But why?" Starsky asked tearfully, his chest heaving with panic. It couldn't be true; he wouldn't be able to bear the weight of his grief if it was.

"What do you mean _why_? You know. I don't have to tell you why it was mistake. This week was a mistake too." Hutch looked guiltily at the dirty t-shirt on the top of the duffle bag. "I shouldn't have left you here. I should have forced you to come home. I'm sorry. I should have known better; it's just that sometimes I need a break from you just as much as you need one from me."

"I don't know why!" Starsky insisted. Didn't Hutch know how hard it was for him to ask the question? How horrifying it was to question such an important truth?

"David, you are entirely too upset about this. It's really not that big of a deal…"

"If it's not a big deal then why can't we talk about it?"

"It was a long time ago," Hutch soothed. "It doesn't matter now. Take a deep breath, please. Calm yourself down before—"

"Why won't you just _tell me_? You're the one who brought it up this afternoon but now it has to be some big secret?"

"When this afternoon?" Hutch's face contorted with confusion. "What are you _talking_ about?"

"Don't lie to me! You know! In the apartment above Huggy's, you were there, a-and I was there. And you told me… _you_ told _me_ what happened because I couldn't remember… and you… _you_ were so _happy_ to make me remember something so _bad_ and now… now I can't stop thinking about it. And I just need to know what part of that memory is a _lie_."

"Sweetheart, nothing bad happened between us, not in that apartment. Not this afternoon and not years ago—"

"Then why can't we talk about it!" Starsky demanded, his breath coming in thick gasps, and Hutch grasped his shoulders gently, seemingly intent on wrapping him in a comforting embrace. " _Don't touch me_! I c-can't have you t-touching me… N-not after…" Throat burning and tears streaming helplessly down his cheeks, Starsky took a step back, then another, and another. He jumped as his back hit the hallway, and he turned his head to protect himself from the glimmer in Hutch's wide eyes.

"Oh, David," Hutch said, his soft voice thick with ill-repressed emotion. "I'm so sorry…"

"Don't," Starsky whispered helplessly as the details of the memory suddenly became clear, weighing him down with exhausted anguish. It couldn't be true, and, yet, he knew it was. Hutch hadn't been the one who had acted poorly the first night they had been together; he had been the one who had crossed the line. Their promise not to discuss it was symptomatic of Hutch's fierce need to protect him—his need to shoulder the responsibility for another thing that had been so terribly wrong.

Body shaking, his legs gave beneath his weight and dissolving into deep-chested sobs, he sunk to the floor. He couldn't handle the pain of this moment; he couldn't tolerate the panic and shame accompanying the look on Hutch's face or the words that were destined to leave his husband's mouth. Hutch shouldn't have left him, but he shouldn't have ran away. He never did well when they were separated; he never could keep himself intact on his own.

"…I had no idea things had gotten this bad."

TBC


	45. Chapter Forty-Five

The forest was dark.

Sitting under a starless sky, it was composed of tall lines of trees spreading into the distance as far as the eye could see. Walking barefoot across the frigid, fog covered land, Starsky's skin cowered against the coldness of the air as his feet sunk into wet earth, filling the spaces between his toes with pine needles and oozing mud. His naked upper body was covered in goosebumps, the hair on his legs protesting the cold, standing at attention beneath the thin fabric of his pajama pants. But he didn't mind frosty temperature—absently, he realized he didn't mind anything about this moment at all.

The forest was painfully quiet—unnaturally so—but he felt calm, enveloped in a sense of peace and tranquility he hadn't experienced in far too long. He didn't know where he was, who had taken him to this place or why, but as he numbly put one foot in front of the other he knew one thing for certain: he needed to go forward because there was no going back.

Walking next to him, matching his slow movement with agonizingly purposeful strides, was the remains of the charred man. The body he had discovered behind the Badlander—the figure of a man whose name he didn't yet know but for whom he felt unfathomable fondness for. He had been so troubled by the body's whereabouts—where the forensics team had taken it after being found— and he was overjoyed to see it again, walking beside him in all its grotesque beauty, its body encrusted with hints of what was once skin. A shriveled, blackened sheath covering muscle, fat, and bones that had bound together, forming a dark outline of what was once a man.

Surrounded by trees and shrouded by darkness they traveled on a pathless ground. Walking through moonlight as old friends do, whispering quiet words and taking respite in one another.

"There will come a time when people will think that you and are different, but we are the same," the charred man said, the words reverberating through the night.

"Are we?" Starsky asked.

"Of course." The charred man smiled, his blackened, withered lips curling over jagged teeth. Raising his arm, he poked at his face with a long, dehydrated finger. His face was desiccated, cooked and peeling beyond recognition, but on his cheek was the slightest of gaps, a hint of a liner crevice—a scar that was a twin of Starsky's own. "You're a marked man. Just like I was. Just like all the men before us and the ones that will come after."

"I can't be exactly like you," Starsky whispered evenly. "Or the others. The other man I found, Matthew Avery, he was criminal. And I'm sure, given time, Whitley will tell me you were one too."

"He will, and when the time comes you won't think much about his words, but later, much later, you will wonder if I was falsely accused."

"I doubt that. Given where you were and how I found you, you had to have been into something nasty. People don't light other people on fire just because. It's personal. Whoever did this to you wanted you to suffer, and they wanted you to be found."

"I was not the best man in life," the charred man agreed. "But have you never made a mistake? Or are you fortunate enough to have never acted in a shameful way?"

Starsky shrugged. "Everyone is entitled to a mistake. But I've never done something worth being arrested for, or incinerated over."

"What you mean is you've never been properly accused. You've made mistakes, you just said so yourself. And what about that night?"

"What night?"

"The night in the apartment, the one you wanted so badly for your husband to be responsible for?"

Shame and guilt bubbling in the pit of his stomach, Starsky grimaced. There were so many other things he could think about other than that disgraceful night—so many other terrible moments he should have fixated on when emerging from the bathroom at his aunt and uncle's house—so many other things he could have demanded Hutch to explain, but instead he had insisted he justify something he never could.

"The time you spent captive to Simon Marcus and the darkness shaped you," the charred man said, his soft voice matter-of-fact. "It changed everything, just as fate intended it to. That experience left you traumatized; it created cracks in your memories, overcoming and flooding some of them with doubt. You know that your interpretations can be flawed; that sometimes, in the midst of your confusion, you don't know what the truth is. Your husband is blameless for the night in question. He didn't do anything wrong to _you_."

"I don't want to think about this."

"Not thinking about it doesn't change what's been done. It doesn't change the night when the two you were first together, or the way you demanded your husband to explain something he didn't fully understand."

"We promised not to talk about it," Starsky whispered.

"Why?"

"Because it _was_ wrong. Not in the way I was thinking the day I asked Hutch to explain himself, but it still shouldn't have happened."

"Why not?"

"Because when we slept together Hutch was dating someone else. It's not the best way to start a successful relationship, by cheating on someone you love."

"But your husband didn't love Abbey. At the time, he secretly loved you."

"I know."

"Then what weight do you carry about that night? Why is your conscious so burdened with guilt?"

"Because Hutch doesn't know the truth. Nobody does and nobody can."

"Which is?"

"Maybe that night I cheating on someone, too," Starsky whispered. This was bad path to be traveling down, full of horrible memories and pain and details that, if disclosed, promised to complicate his marriage and his career. "Some secrets are meant to be kept. Some things you don't know are going to hurt you until it's too late."

"There are a great many things about your current situation that are troubling to you. Some of them your husband understands and some you are determined to ensure he never will. The two of you are more alike than you are different. Willful, stubborn, and obstinate in the face of guarding the painful events that shaped you the most. With all the terrible events your husband was responsible for, the actions he chose that subsequently changed your life, it is easy to become too accustomed to holding him responsible for all the things that cause _you_ shame."

"I don't want to talk about this anymore," Starsky breathed, his body buzzing with discomfort. The charred man's presence was soothing, but why was he was trying to guide their conversation toward things better left alone?

"Then let's talk about something else. Who do you belong to?"

"No one."

"That is a lie. You know it, and I know it, too. The mark on your cheek is proof of the truth that will come out, eventually. It always does. And what will you do then? What will you have left to hold onto once everything you know is gone, and you're forced to finally accept the truth of what your husband has become?"

"Nothing, because it isn't true. Hutch isn't the one who's changed. I-I'm the one that's confused. I know I was scared of him before but I know now what I didn't then. He wouldn't hurt me; he wouldn't hurt anybody."

"He hurt you before," the charred man said simply. "When you were captive on the Marcus Compound it was him who placed you there. He could have saved you but he didn't. He could have illuminated a torch in the darkness but he chose extinguish it instead."

"That was a long time ago. I-I've forgiven him for that."

"Have you?"

"I want to," Starsky admitted. "He makes it hard, though."

"You make it difficult, too. He has so much to share with you, but you remain unwilling to listen. You remain obstinately resistant to burdening the weight of what he has done, what your love for him has influenced him to do."

"I didn't tell him to do anything."

"And, yet, you did. After the events on the Marcus Compound you asked him to be strong when he was so weak. You asked him to burden your anger and pain when he couldn't began to contend with his own."

Shaking his head, Starsky wanted to deny the words. But he couldn't, too much had happened to do such a foolish thing now.

"Despite the pain of everything, everything that's been unearthed and the things yet to come, you're stronger together than you'll ever be apart. You both know that, and that's why neither of you are willing to let go of the other. You can't run from this; there's no going back now that you've begun."

"I didn't _begin_. I didn't chose this. I didn't _want_ any of this."

"He chose for both of you." Coming to a stop, the charred man lifted his arm and indicated at something in the distance. "And in time you will be brave enough to understand why."

Squinting, Starsky struggled to comprehend what he was meant to see in the dense thicket of trees. "I don't see anything," he whispered, his eyes finally setting on a square, steel door carefully hidden amongst the forest floor. It was bunker; a secret place to hide the darkest of deeds. "No."

His heart skipped in his chest as he took a step back. Surrounded by a vast forest, he knew that this bunker couldn't be the same one Simon Marcus had kept him captive in, but somehow it was. If he moved forward, came upon the door to the hidden bunker, grasped its handle, and descended into its depths, he knew that it would be the same—though how, he wasn't quite sure.

"No." He squeezed his eyes closed tightly, frantically trying to shield himself from further scrutinizing something he didn't want to look at—from absently considering something he didn't want to think about. "I'm not ready for that, yet. I-I'm not prepared to face what happened down there."

"Neither was your husband," the charred man said. "But twice he sought the depths of the bunker on the Marcus Compound when he felt he had no other choice. The first time served a purpose; he killed Simon Marcus and saved your life, but the second wasn't so noble. Marcus's death was a gift from fate; it was your husband's second chance, his opportunity to begin again and build an honest life. But disappearing, he chose oracles over honesty; he chose nihility over responsibility; and he chose the darkness over you."

"I know," Starsky said somberly. Devastating words leaving his mouth, he opened his eyes and found his environment had drastically changed.

Staring at the familiar ceiling, his brows furrowed as he blinked rapidly, clenching the sheets covering his body tightly in his hands, struggling to reconcile his current surroundings with the lucidity of his dream. Laying on the bottom of the bed, Lucky blinked blearily, yawning in an exhausted fashion before nuzzling his head between his paws.

Starsky looked around the calm peaceful confines of the bedroom he shared with Hutch. He had no memory of returning to their home or falling asleep in their bed. In fact, he had no recent memories as all; the last thing he could firmly recall was discovering the charred body and his subsequent meltdown outside of his childhood bedroom over a fragmented memory that seemed silly now. But if hours or days had passed since that moment, he was unsure.

How long had he been sleeping? And how much time had passed while he was awake but unaware of himself? What had happened between his emotional breakdown and this moment in time? The unanswered questions circled his brain. But contrary to when he experienced them before, he wasn't unsettled by his thoughts or all the questions he couldn't answer, rather curious.

His body felt rested, his mind energized and clear as he set his gaze on the sliver of sunshine peeking through the gap in the curtains. He felt calm and light, cloaked in the peaceful comfort he had enjoyed in his dream. The charred man had visited him, soothing away his apprehension, calming his overwhelming fear.

The sound of the shower in the master bathroom filled his ears, and laying on his back, he rubbed his hands through his hair then thoughtfully over the growth peppering his cheeks. Judging by the length of the short, stiff hairs scratching his fingers, he couldn't have been out of it that long—the beard wasn't nearly as full as it had been when Hutch had trimmed it.

Feeling an incessant pressure build in his bladder, he sprung from the bed, sneaking through the slightly ajar bathroom door to find the mirror fogged up from the heat of Hutch's morning shower.

"That's bull-shit," Starsky groused good-naturedly. Flipping up the toilet seat to relieve himself—in what felt like the first time in days—he peered at the outline of Hutch's body—obscured but familiar—through the frosted screen encasing the shower.

" _What_?" Hutch's muffled voice asked. Hands pausing on the top of his shampoo covered hair, his face was distorted but Starsky was sure it was frozen in shocked surprise. Too much time had passed since they had enjoyed a moment like this. Too preoccupied with previous improprieties, never while living in Venice Place had Starsky dared enter the bathroom while Hutch was showering—or otherwise indisposed.

Today was different, though, Starsky wasn't certain why. He felt better, closer to normal—and Hutch—than ever before. The charred man had spoken to him his dreams, he was no longer alone. "I said: that's bullshit!" he repeated enthusiastically.

"What's bull-shit?"

"You yell at me for taking showers that hot."

"Who yells?"

"You yell."

"I never yell."

"The yelling is implied by the emphasis you put on the words." Pulling up the waistband of his pajama bottoms, Starsky extended his hand to the back of the toilet.

"Flush and you're in _big_ trouble," Hutch warned as he tucked his head, rising his hair then the rest of his body under the cleansing stream of the showerhead.

Index finger resting precariously on the toilet handle, Starsky grinned. "Don't tell me what to do."

"I wouldn't dream of it." Switching off the shower, Hutch slid the door open slightly, carefully hiding the lower half of his body as he peered at Starsky and smiled. "Doesn't matter now. Flush away."

"Oh, I intend to," Starsky said, his finger pressing the lever down. "I wouldn't want to get yelled at for forgetting to flush."

"I never yell," Hutch repeated, his eyes frozen on the twin towels hanging on the back of the bathroom door. "So, uh, are you going take a hike or are you planning on sticking around for the whole ballgame?"

"I don't know." Starsky shrugged, feigning disinterest as he looked between his husband and the towels. "It's been awhile since I've bothered to see the home team. It might be good to see how the lineup has changed."

Hutch looked perplexed. "What is your deal?"

"What?" Starsky laughed.

"Seriously, if this is your idea of a twisted joke it isn't very funny."

"It's not a joke."

"Then it's a trick."

"It's not a trick."

"Or a trap," Hutch said nervously. "Listen, David, you seem pretty stable right now, and I'm happy, shit, I'm _overjoyed_ that you're experiencing a sudden change in mood and opinion. But I don't think now is such a good time to be experimenting with reactions to things that haven't gone so well in the past."

"Fuck the past."

"Well, we did try," Hutch said a hint of regret in his soft tone. "Cut me a break, will you? You look good. You're in a _great_ mood; I don't want to be the one responsible for ruining it because I should have known better."

"Okay," Starsky whispered, his smile not wavering. "You don't want to play in front of me, fine. But there's nothing stopping me from catching a glimpse of the game from beyond the fence."

Leaving the room, he deliberately left the bathroom door ajar.

Xx

"Buddy, what has gotten into you?" Jack Mitchell asked. Sitting at the timber kitchen island, his face was tired, weighted by the deep, dark circles under his eyes, as he held his coffee cup inches from his mouth and drowsily watched Starsky's frenzied movements.

"Nothing," Starsky said lightly. Tossing a kitchen towel over his naked shoulder, he opened the fridge, loading his arms with as many items as he could carry to the stove. He hadn't showered, or changed out of his pajama pants—or followed through on his warning to ogle Hutch from a distance as he emerged from the shower—but there would be plenty of time for that later. He could summon the energy—and feign the courage—the force himself to do all those things, now that he knew he wasn't alone. "How do you like your eggs?"

"I don't think I have ever seen you cook, are you sure you know how?"

"Sure, I know how." Pulling an oversized, ceramic bowl from the cupboard, Starsky began cracking egg after egg, quickly tossing the remnants of each shell to splatter and crack on the counter before reaching for another. "Scrambled, right?"

"What?"

"That's how you like your eggs."

"I… guess," Mitchell agreed weakly. "So, you're feeling better, then?"

"Better than what?"

"Better than when Cam brought you home."

"Oh, yeah… Sure… Way better."

"Boy, you sure were a mess," Mitchell sighed tiredly. "Although, you probably don't remember too much about that. You were pretty upset and totally out of it, screaming and crying about this and that. You can't skip your meds, buddy. It's not conducive to maintaining your recovery."

"Why don't you tell me something I haven't heard before," Starsky muttered, rolling his eyes.

"It isn't fair, Starsky," Mitchell continued sadly, "not to you or Cam. He's so dedicated to you, so committed to ensuring you succeed, and so intent on keeping you on the up-and-up."

"Well, I'm feeling pretty up right now." Starsky grinned.

"Yeah, I noticed." Mitchell frowned. "That's quite an incredible comeback from where you were three days ago. I've seen people skip meds and then go back on them, but never have I seen somebody rebound this quick. What else changed for you?"

"Um." Starsky tilted his head, stifling a grimace and the doubt threatening to creep back into the depths of his mind. How long had it been since he'd cooked for anyone, or himself? And how could he possibly explain his drastic change in mood, the overwhelming relief that had accompanied such a seemingly melancholy dream? No one would understand—not his affinity for the charred man, not the almost manic joy seeing the figure in his dreams had awoken. "I made a friend," he whispered, his eyes widening as the words spilled unconsciously from his mouth.

"A friend?"

"Uh… yeah."

"Where the hell did you meet a friend? You've been in bed for nearly four days."

"I… uh… dreamed of him."

"You _dreamed of him_ ," Mitchell repeated, regarding Starsky carefully. "Can you tell me just exactly how a person makes friends in their dreams?" he asked, his voice gentle and even, as though he was pressing a small child to recall a traumatizing event.

"I don't know. I was the one who found his body, so I guess he decided to find me in my dreams."

"The friend you made in your dreams is a _dead guy_?"

Ignoring Mitchell's question and startled expression, Starsky turned his attention to the cracked eggs sitting limply in the ceramic bowl. Grabbing a fork from the drawer, he began beating them heartily, hoping that the action would calm his anxiety and distract Mitchell from asking more probing questions, or at least prevent him from providing irrational answers—no matter how truthful they were.

 _I met a friend in my dreams_ , Starsky thought with a dismal snort. What had possessed him to disclose such a damaging thing?

Once a doctor embarking on a promising career, Mitchell's interpretation of his behavior was threatening. If he hadn't thought Starsky was disturbed before he certainly did now. His expression—his cautious stare as sipped his coffee and covertly watched his every movement—was proof of that. He was evaluating him. Gathering hints, compiling observations, and deducing a diagnosis of his current mental status that would be reported back to Hutch the second Starsky left them alone.

"Starsky," Mitchell said, his tone too serious to be ignored.

"What?"

"I don't think it's a good idea for you to stay away from home for too long."

Shoulders sinking, Starsky sighed exasperatedly. He had woken in such a good mood, was it too much to ask for Mitchell to cease his careful probing? "Listen, you can save the medical evaluation for someone else, okay? I was confused before but now I'm fine."

"You're not the one I'm worried about. I don't think you should leave Cam again. Not for long stretches of time, not even for a night."

"Why?"

"He's not the same person without you. He's quiet, hostile; he keeps odd hours and does the _strangest_ things."

"Like what?"

"He sleeps in the basement. Locks himself inside and doesn't leave for extended periods of time. It's weird, Starsky."

"Why would he do that?" Starsky breathed, anxiety building in his chest. "What could he be doing that would—?"

"Good morning, gentlemen, and what a beautiful day it is," Hutch said enthusiastically. Cuffing the sleeves of his flannel shirt, he approached the kitchen with Lucky following tight on his heels. "You're up early," he said, grinning at Mitchell before shifting his attention to Starsky, who was violently beating the eggs with a fork. "And you're _cooking_?"

"Apparently, making friends in your dreams leaves you with an intense need to make scrambled eggs," Mitchell mused flatly.

"What?" Hutch snorted.

"You like scrambled eggs, don't you, Hutch?" Starsky asked, hoping the abrupt question would deter his husband's attention away from Mitchell's careless words, and ease the dread gathering in the pit of his stomach.

"Sure do, sweetheart." Pouring a cup of coffee, Hutch leaned against the counter paces away, silently considering the disordered items that had been gathered from the fridge then abandoned, splattered and intermixed with fragments of sticky eggshells. "Hey, David," he said gently, carefully watching Starsky aggressively beat the splashing eggs.

"Yeah?"

"I think you can stop now, those eggs are sufficiently liquefied."

"Oh." Abruptly stopping the manic movement, Starsky let go of the fork and watched dumbly as it slid to the bottom of the bowl with clank. Flatting his palms on both sides of the bowl, he looked regretfully at the glistening contents, suddenly unsure of what to do next. What was Hutch doing in the basement? Why would he chose to sleep down there? "Shit."

"It's fine," Hutch assured. Peeling Starsky's hands from the countertop, he ushered him away from the allure of the bowl. "I tell you what, how about you go jump in the shower and I'll finish the eggs."

"Okay," Starsky agreed quickly. His body alive with nervous agitation, he wanted nothing more than to leave the room, to seek respite in the privacy of their bedroom, where he could properly calm himself down.

Too much had already been said—by Mitchell and himself— about Hutch's dubious behavior and the surreptitious information about the charred man he shouldn't have allowed to escape his mouth—certainly not in front of Mitchell, someone who was sure to share his damning words with Hutch. He didn't want to accidently disclose more. He had come too far to lose his good mood; he had gained too much from the charred man's presence to lose track of himself now.

Entering the hallway, Starsky hesitated in place, gripping his fists at his sides as the sound of hushed voices traveled softly from the kitchen. He wasn't surprised by the sound, or the concerned words. Conversations like this had happened before and they would take place again.

"He's cycling again," Mitchell said evenly.

"Oh, I _gathered_ that," Hutch hissed. "What the fuck is a dream friend?"

"It's a friend you make in your dreams."

"He's making _friends_ in his _dreams_ , now?"

"No, he's making friends with _dead people_ in his dreams."

"Oh, shit," Hutch whispered sadly. "That's not funny."

"Who's laughing?"

"What am I going do?"

"I don't know, but I'll tell you what you shouldn't do. You shouldn't let him go back to work—"

"Jack."

"It's too dangerous for him to be out there, Cam! That job is filling his mind up with violence and death; it's constantly triggering him. He's up and then he's down. He lucid and then he's not, and then when it all gets to be too much he disconnects from his surroundings for days. He can't handle the stress of it."

"I know."

"He's not as strong as you keep insisting he is. He needs structure and therapy. He needs more help than you're admitting he does."

"I know that, too."

"Then what are you going to do?"

"I don't know," Hutch said tiredly. "I don't know if there's anything I can do. He hates me enough as it is. I take that job away and it's a done deal. They'll never take him back, and he'll never forgive me make him give up the only thing he has left to hang on to."

Xx

Starsky pulled his t-shirt over his head with shaking hands. His hair was wet, his body shivering from the frigid shower he had taken. He hadn't wanted to take a hot shower; he hadn't trusted himself to keep it at _a reasonable temperature_ as Hutch would say. But intent on making the water more tepid, he had turned the nozzle a little too far and quickly discovered that cold water could hurt too.

Mitchell's words had lingered, intermixing with Hutch's hushed devastated tone, softening the ease Starsky had felt when awakening. Feeling a deep sadness creep in, he yearned to return to the place of his dreams. Though the things the charred man had known—his comments about Hutch's choices and the past—were far from uplifting, the figure was comforting. Starsky longed to be in his company once more, to seek respite in his presence, his gentle guidance, and his calm resoluteness in the face of everything Starsky didn't want to think about.

"What are you doing?" Hutch's soft voice asked.

Turning in place, Starsky found him standing paces away, his guarded eyes considering him carefully. "Getting dressed," he said. "I thought I should go check in with Blaine, see what Whitley's been up to while I've been gone."

"That's probably a good plan."

"Have you seen my phone?" Shoving his feet in his worn Adidas Sambas, Starsky strode to the nightstand, gathering his long abandoned Seiko and wallet, placing the latter in the back pocket of his ripped jeans and the other on his right wrist. "I can't find it anywhere."

"Are you sure you don't want to change your pants if you're planning on talking to Blaine?" Hutch asked, pulling Starsky's iPhone from the breast pocket of his flannel shirt as he moved to stand next to him. "Those jeans have seen better days."

Sliding his palms protectively over the tattered material covering his thighs, Starsky's mouth hung open. He had no intention of changing—they both knew that. Despite the small growing holes in the corners of the back pockets and the larger ones marring both knees, the jeans were his favorite. They were soft, perfectly broken in, familiar. A small comfort to help him contend with what now promised to be another difficult day.

Why did he have to demand that Hutch tell the truth about the night in the apartment above the Pits? Why couldn't he have just understood then what he saw clearly now? And now that he was awake—lucid for the first time in days—Hutch would want talk about it—as he always did. He would want to know what had prompted Starsky's meltdown, what had sparked its intensity and left him pleading for an explanation for something that no longer warranted any concern.

"Well, you wear what you're comfortable in," Hutch added. Carefully shoving the phone into the empty back pocket of Starsky's jeans, he let his hand linger behind, seemingly testing if Starsky's earlier ease had survived the morning.

"I checked the closet," Starsky said, needing to justify his choice of apparel, to somehow make it seem less about the familiarity of the clothes and more about the lack of something else. "My uniforms are gone."

Hutch retracted his hand to his side. "With everything, I forgot about them. I dropped the nasty one off at the dry cleaners. I haven't gotten around to picking it up."

"What about the spare?"

"It's still sitting in your closet at Rosie and Al's. I would have grabbed it, but, uh, it didn't seem all that important at the time."

"Oh," Starsky said. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he pulled his knees, one after another, to his chest to tie his shoes. He didn't want to talk about that day—the day the confused memory of what had happened in the apartment above the Pits had emerged from the depths of brain; the day he had been led to the charred body; the day he had lost control of himself for what felt like the millionth time.

"Aren't you going ask me how long you were out of it?"

"Four days, right?" Starsky shrugged. What did it matter if it had been one day or six? All his mental collapses began and ended the same, with a breakdown he wanted to take back and a horrible conversation he didn't have the energy to endure.

Hutch smiled hopefully. "You remember that yourself?"

Starsky frowned. "No. Uh… Jack told me." Letting go of his tied shoelace, he extended his leg, allowing his foot to fall to the floor with a firm thud. He longed for the presence of the charred man, for the ability to speak freely to someone who was non-judgmental and honest; someone who already understood everything that had gone so wrong.

"Hey," Hutch coaxed. "You were in such a good mood when you woke up, what happened?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing, huh?" Hutch sighed, the explanation clearly not believed. "Well, if you're not going to tell me what flipped your mood, can you at least tell me how much about that day you remember?"

"What day?"

"The day you broke down."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, come on. Don't play games, not now. I'm talking about the day you disappeared for hours. The day I picked you up behind that shithole of a bar. The day I took you to Rosie and Al's, when you took a shower and then emerged more upset than you were you before you bathed." Hutch raised his hands helplessly. "Which seems to be an ongoing theme these days. Please, sweetheart," he pleaded. "Something happened, I what to know what triggered you; I need to know what happened to make you so upset over something that we agreed not to talk about."

"I don't know," Starsky said gruffly. "I don't remember a lot."

"Not a lot isn't nothing. Tell me what you do remember."

"Man, what is wrong with you?" Starsky huffed. "Why do you care so much about that day? It isn't any different than ones we've been through before. You want to know what happened, I'll tell you what happened. I skipped the damn pills, went too long without sleep, and freaked out."

"That's no good. Something else happened, you and I both know that."

"I don't remember!"

"Then let me help you," Hutch said, an edge to his voice. "You asked me a question, David, right before everything went to shit. You wanted to know what had had happened between us in that apartment. You said that I had told you something about that night that you didn't think was true. What happened in the apartment above the Pits, David? What horrible memory did going up there to hide from Whitley awaken, and what did it have to do with the first night we were together? Now, I know what I think was wrong about that night, but it isn't worth that kind of concern. It didn't warrant the panic I saw in your eyes. What was so bad that you needed someone to tell you it wasn't?"

"Nothing," Starsky lied, his thick words catching in his throat. He couldn't talk about this. Why couldn't Hutch just understand what he, himself, had been too upset to understand before? Some memories were meant to be buried; some terrible things were better off left in the past.

Dropping to his knees, Hutch held Starsky's kneecaps. "Don't lie me. Not after everything we've been through, not with everything we're still struggling to deal with. You asked me to be honest with you, even if it was something I had done wrong, and now I'm asking the same from you."

"And I'm asking you to let it go." Pressing his palms to the top of Hutch's hands, Starsky looked at him pleadingly. "Nothing bad happened in the apartment, not between us, not with somebody else. I know that now. I was confused; I was tired, and being up there was just so… _overwhelming_."

"Like how working under John Blaine again is so overwhelming for you," Hutch said matter-of-factly.

"N-no," Starsky denied. Hutch couldn't possibly know what his careful statement was alluding to. He didn't know because nobody _knew_. But staring into his husband's fierce, crisp eyes, Starsky was sure that he did. "Please, just let it _go_."

Lips forming a straight line, Hutch looked at the floor. For a moment Starsky wondered if his husband was going to be bold enough to ask the question lingering between them—if he was strong enough to accept the truth—but, in the end, he asked something else, "Do you really think you should be going back to work? Do you really feel as though putting yourself in old detrimental situations is going help your mental stability? Your progress isn't sustainable, and it won't be as long as you remain intent on surrounding yourself with the agonizing memories of things that can't be taken back."

Though the words cut deep, they didn't hurt Starsky near as much as what had influenced Hutch to finally voice the concern—the doubt that Mitchell's careless words had instilled. "Is that you or _Doctor_ Jack Mitchell talking?" Starsky spat, frustrated tears filling his eyes and anger flickering in the depths of his heart.

"Jack has nothing to do with the question I just asked."

"Oh, bull-shit! Do you think I don't hear you? That I don't know that the two of you are talking about me when you think I'm not around? I remember more about the conversation you and Mitchell had this morning I do that fucking day you want to know so much about!"

"Hey," Hutch said deeply, struggling to grasp Starsky's hands as he pulled them away. "I'm sorry, okay? I shouldn't talk about you behind your back, I know that. But it doesn't mean anything. It's like when you blow off steam with Huggy. And doctor or not, Jack is nothing to worry about. He doesn't know us, sweetheart. He doesn't know you, and he doesn't know me near as well as he thinks he does."

Swift anger waning, Starsky looked at Hutch helplessly with glistening eyes. _"_ But he's your best friend," he whispered thickly.

" _You're_ my best friend," Hutch soothed. "Some days it would be nice if you remembered that. And I think you would, if you stopped so being angry and defensive all the time and let me support you like you used to. You're not alone, David. I know you feel like you are but you're not. Sweetheart, I am right here, and I'm in this for the long haul. I'm not going anywhere, no matter what you say, no matter how angry and mean you are today or how sad and helpless you are tomorrow."

Lip quivering and heart pounding, Starsky gave into the moment. Aching for something to calm his building anxiety, he surrendered himself to a simple fundamental comfort, held out his arms, and allowed Hutch to pull him into a tight embrace. "I'm sorry."

"Best friends don't have to apologize," Hutch rumbled. "Of course that only applies to us if you still think I'm yours. Am I your best friend?"

Gripping the back of Hutch's shirt in both his hands, Starsky didn't think about his answer. "Y-yes."

"Even after everything?"

"Even after everything." Resting his head on Hutch's shoulder, Starsky inhaled a series of shaky breaths, willing himself to calm down as he took momentary solace in his husband's steadfast strength and resolute serenity. "I love you, you know. I don't think the memories would hurt so much if I didn't."

"I know."

But burdened with worry, Starsky was sure Hutch didn't know. He didn't feel the weight of things better left alone; he didn't respect the dread that had become embedded into their lives, or understand the power of Starsky's doubt. His uncertainty was overwhelming, a threatening, crippling presence that fed by fear—and the ominous words of both Mitchell and the charred man—was growing larger every day, intensifying with each haunting question Starsky didn't want to know the answer to.

What unspeakable thing had Hutch done—what had _his_ love influenced him to do? What secret was Hutch hiding in his beloved basement? Lining the exterior of the door with deadbolts, what terrible thing was he trying to keep captive—contained—in the dark depths?

"Hutch?"

"Yeah?"

"If you did something really bad you'd tell me, right?"

"Oh, _sweetheart_ ," Hutch laughed, a deep, unnerving sound that rose from the depths of his chest. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Ruin the moment by asking questions we both know you already have been given the answers to."

TBC


	46. Chapter Forty-Six

The afternoon was mild, tepid and overcast as the sky gradually darkened and the sun moved to hide behind gathering storm clouds threatening rain. Traffic was mess; car after car lined the highway in an endless stream of gridlock. Too many people heading in the same direction, or, perhaps they were all fleeing from the overwhelming claustrophobic confines of their big city lives.

Sitting in the driver's seat of Camaro, Starsky blinked tiredly behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses and sighed. He was never going to get to Metro before Blaine left for the day at this rate—or anywhere, for that matter. Propping his elbow on the open window seal, he pressed his open palm to the side of his face. The strong plastic molding bit into his arm, but fingering the scar on his cheek, he didn't notice the pain. Fingertip tracing the white, puckered skin up and down, his thoughts wandered toward an absent memory he still struggled to recall.

Both of the bodies he had found were marred with scars on their cheeks, but how had he gotten his scar? Had Marcus put it there? Or had someone else—something else—been determined to mark his body with a permanent, prominent reminder of what had been done, ensuring the agony of the past was never forgotten or ignored. The charred man had told him the scar was proof of something—an explanation of their nonconsensual brotherhood—justification of their violent confounding fates. But what did Starsky have in common with Matthew Avery, the charred man, or the ones he had been warned would come after?

Why would they all share such a distinctive mark?

Sitting abruptly in the back seat, Lucky yawned, an elaborate action accompanied by an unconscious, high-pitched moan. Assessing the bored Dalmatian in the rearview mirror, Starsky smiled. He had allowed the dog to accompany him with no protest from Hutch. Of course, the ending of their brief conversation probably had something to do with that. _Don't ruin the moment by asking questions we both know you already have been given the answers to._ Starsky frowned as Hutch's unsettling words popped into his mind, threatening to loiter unwelcomely and drastically change his mood. He didn't want to think about what would have prompted his husband to say such a thing—in such an unsettling tone, no less. The moment he had said them, Hutch had retracted the words, qualifying them with a more palatable statement: _I've answered this question a thousand times, sweetheart, my answer is the same now as it's always been._ But Starsky didn't know if that was a true statement or a lie.

How could he possibly recall the answer if he didn't remember ever asking the question?

Looking at the endless rows of the vehicles sitting stagnant in front of them, he groaned and Lucky whined in unison. How were they ever going to get where they were going if couldn't move from this place?

"Sorry, kid. I can't control traffic," Starsky said.

Seemingly displeased with the words, Lucky rested his head forlornly on the console between the front seats and peered up at him with dark eyes.

"I wish I could," Starsky added, his face contorting sadly. Lifting his arm to encircle the dog's shoulders, he pet Lucky gently.

While Hutch had told him he wasn't alone, he was certain he had never felt more alone in his life. Even now, surrounded by people contained in their immobile cars and in the company of his beloved dog, he longed for the ease of the forest he had seen in his dream, of the irrefutable wisdom of the charred man.

"Actually, there's a lot of stuff I wish I could control, or change," Starsky admitted to Lucky's twitching ears. "It's a pretty long list that starts with your other dad and ends with John Blaine. Things are so different now, and I don't know how much is me or them, how much of it I can or can't change. What if this is just life now, huh? What if things are destined to be tense and hopeless? What if we're meant to live the rest of our lives intent ignoring everything that went wrong and avoiding the truth? What the hell are we going to do then?"

Things were different, Lucky's presence in the Camaro was proof of that. Once solely devoted to Hutch, Lucky's loyalties had shifted, extending to encompass the pair; though, most days Starsky appeared to be the sole recipient of the Dalmatian's fierce protectiveness. There were times when Lucky appeared downright suspicious—or threatened—by Hutch's presence or intensions and outwardly concerned or anxious about Starsky's wellbeing. Though if the change in the dog's once happy-go-lucky demeanor was symptomatic of the stress of the last few horrific years or a warning to be heeded, Starsky was unsure.

Staring at the lines of traffic, Starsky's stomach fluttered and he gripped the steering wheel in both his hands. Hutch's unsettling insinuations about Blaine had unraveled him in a way he didn't want to explain; they had left him feeling devious and deceitful. He wasn't in a hurry to get where he was going; in fact, if he could avoid Metro forever he probably would. The idea of seeing Blaine today—after the strangeness of the morning, the frightening disclosure about Hutch's sleeping arrangements, and the contrived comfort of his husband's arms—was almost too much. The way he was feeling, he didn't trust himself not to seek respite from his anxiety and confusion—to not give into the pull of someone he had once adored.

Hutch didn't know the truth, nobody did and nobody could.

He used to look forward to meetings with Blaine, he thought grimly. And it wouldn't take much for him to feel that way now. All his superior would have to do is look at him, his familiar eyes glistening with gentle understanding, and it would be easy to fall into old habits. It would be too tempting to give into the intoxicating pull of the distant past, when he had been a uniform cop and things were vastly different than they were now. He had been younger, his body not touched by evil, his soul not sullied by darkness—by the painful truth of the horrible things people could do. His career had been exciting and new, and meetings with Blaine were something to anxiously anticipate. Their time together was coveted and savored. Sometimes they met in Blaine's office but more often than not, they met somewhere else. Somewhere secret and safe. And when Starsky was conflicted, Blaine eased his tension. He always had a way of making things better—or worse—depending on his mood. He was a lot like Hutch in that way.

"How did we end up here, Lucky?" Starsky whispered, aching for the past and dreading the future. There was no guarantee anything would ever be as it once had been. "How do we keep ending up _here_? What the fuck am I doing running back to a uniform, to Blaine, to a partner I don't know, and job that has no place for me? I can't go forward by going back, I know that, but, damn it, how the hell am I supposed know what to do?"

He exhaled heartily as traffic began to move. Creeping ever-so-slightly, taking him further from the man he claimed to love and closer to the one he swore he never did.

Xx

"Officer Starsky, how many times do I have to tell you that you can't have your dog in the building?" a uniformed security guard asked. Walking the halls of the higher floors of the towering Metro building, he stopped Starsky and Lucky as they exited the elevator.

Starsky looked around their quiet surroundings. "What dog?"

Pointing at Lucky, the security guard frowned. "That dog."

"I don't see a dog…"

"He's right there!"

"…Maybe you ought to clock out for the day, I think you're imagining things."

"He's sitting right there. He's got spots…"

"You're seeing spots?"

"No, but I am running out of patience."

"I don't see why," Starsky said sweetly. "There's no dog here."

Crouching, the security guard grasped the limp leash hooked to Lucky's collar and thrust it in Starsky's hands. "This dog," he said tersely.

"Oh, _that_ dog! I thought you were seeing some other _imaginary_ dog."

"If you're gonna bring him in, the least you could do is hang on to the leash."

"Ah, Lucky wouldn't hurt anybody. He's a lover not a fighter. He barely barks and never growls."

"I don't care. He's not a K-9 Unit; he doesn't have a badge; he shouldn't even be here. You know how some people feel about dogs."

"No." Starsky shook his head with mock regret. "Unfortunately, I only know how some people feel about _you_."

Face contorting with indignation, the security guard lifted a chastising finger. "You've got some nerve," he said heatedly. "I'd be careful with the jokes if I were you, Starsky, considering the things I've heard about you—"

"Okay," John Blaine interrupted, his authoritative voice filling the hallway as he emerged from his office paces away.

Turning in place, Starsky's heart skipped a beat. He had come to Metro intent on talking to Blaine but seeing him now was startling, intimidating, confusing.

"I want the two of you to apologize for hassling each other," Blaine added, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "You won't be allowed to be on the playground if you can't play nice with each other."

Snorting contemptuously, the security guard refused to comply. "It would be really fucking great if some people took their jobs seriously around here," he muttered, shaking his head as he strode away. "Or bothered to follow the rules."

Gripping Lucky's leash tightly, Starsky held Blaine's gaze, nervousness fluttering in the depths of his stomach. What rumors?

"What is it with the rent-a-cops around here, huh?" Blaine laughed. "They're always looking for a fight. I would ask if you're feeling better but I think I already have the answer." He nodded approvingly. "Sleep did you world of good, buddy. With the exception of those worn-out jeans, you look better than you have in a while. Clean, clear, and rested. It's a welcome sight."

"What rumors, John?" Starsky asked, the guard's taunting words circling his mind. Good or bad, he had to know what people were saying about him. He needed to be privy to the kind of rumors swirling the hallways in hushed tones, or being shared loudly over a round of beers. The rumors he could handle, it was the truth he had trouble with. "Are they old or new?"

"They're nothing you should be concerning yourself with." Blaine indicated at depths of his dimly lit office. "Come in, we're overdue for a talk."

After his meltdown, a talk with his superior was expected. A serious conversation about his place and what his career would look like moving forward was predictable, but the way Blaine had defended him against the threat of a harmless security guard and the familiar dominating gleam his eyes was not.

"I can't go in there," Starsky said, his heart pounding in his chest as old memories threatened to overwhelm him—images of things he had done in that office; the things he had begged Blaine to do to him behind closed doors. A conversation he could handle; the uncertainty of what would happen once he entered the dark office, he could not.

Making empty threats to ogle Hutch's naked body was one thing, but the thought of kissing someone, of letting someone touch him in the ways he hadn't experienced since being trapped in the bunker on the Marcus Compound was something else. His stomach churned nervously at the thought. He couldn't do it; he wouldn't do it. Not with Hutch and with certainly not with John Blaine. He couldn't have anyone touching him—not that way—not now, maybe never again.

"Why not, bud?"

"Because I can't give you what you want," Starsky said agitatedly. "Maybe I could before but things are different now; I-I'm different now."

Hutch didn't know the truth. He had alluded to price of sharing secrets with Blaine and told Starsky to be careful. But he didn't know that went it came to Blaine there never really was a price, at least not one Starsky had been unwilling to pay—until now.

"Shhh!" Looking covertly around the empty hallway, Blaine frowned. "Why the fuck would you bring that up now? Why would you even ask me that? Get in my office before somebody _hears_ you!"

"John, I can't." Shaking his head frantically, Starsky took a step back.

"I'm not asking anything from you, bud," Blaine said gently. Holding his palms in the air, he smiled encouragingly. "I think maybe you misunderstood. Though, I don't know how you could have. Let me put you at ease. I need you to come into my office so we can talk about the bodies you found. I need to catch you up on what Whitley's been doing. You're not going to believe what he found." He took a step forward, his face falling with confusion and concern, as Starsky took a step back. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," Starsky said weakly, struggling to control the panic clenching his chest.

Feeding off of his palpable discomfort, Lucky released a low, warning growl. Placing his body protectively in front of Starsky's legs, the Dalmatian's hair stood on end.

"David," Blaine said calmly. "We agreed about the dog. He doesn't belong here, because, inevitably, you get upset and he gets protective and it turns into a whole big thing."

But they hadn't agreed, had they? Starsky didn't recall taking Lucky to Metro prior to today, when the dog's presence had been needed—a necessity to ground and guide him. Why would he have taken Lucky before?

He didn't remember. Why couldn't he remember?

Things had been bad lately—and he had been so confused—he didn't want to believe he had sought out the comfort of Blaine's strong presence when things with Hutch got too rough. That was a bad habit, a horrible decision, a terrible mistake he had sworn he would never make again. But why was the look in Blaine's eyes making him feel as though he had?

"Control your dog!" Blaine ordered as Lucky's growling intensified.

Dropping Lucky's leash, Starsky shook his head helplessly. His interpretations could be flawed—he knew that. Sometimes when he was overwhelmed or confused, he couldn't distinguish the truth from panic—fact from fear. Closing his eyes, he gripped his fists at his sides and prayed for the charred man, wished for him to suddenly appear in the darkness behind his closed eyelids, to guide him through this moment. To verify or discredit his worries—to clarify all the things he didn't know. But his vision remained empty; in this moment he was alone.

 _Your progress isn't sustainable,_ Hutch's calm words echoed in the depths of his mind _. And it won't be as long as you remain intent on surrounding yourself with the agonizing memories of things that can't be taken back._ Hutch was right—Starsky didn't want him to be but he was. He had felt so good waking up this morning, calm and collected, but the drive had given him too much time to think. The walk leading to Blaine's office had reminded him of too many memories better left ignored.

"David," Blaine warned deeply. "Tell your dog to back off."

Opening his eyes, Starsky found Lucky cornering Blaine against the wall, keeping him captive by harsh growls and the threat of sharp teeth displayed under curled lips.

This was all wrong, turning bad before either of them knew what was happening—or could stop it. He had come to talk—to calmly discuss work and Whitley, the bodies and the complications of his unexpected absence—and now there was no way they were going to be able to do that. If Lucky's defensive behavior hadn't dissolved the companionable mood, then Starsky's apprehensive panic had.

"Everything okay out here, boys?" Sticking his head out of his ajar office door, Lucas Huntley looked dubiously between the two men. "I know it's late and a lot of the nine-to-fivers have cleared out but some of us are still trying to get some shit done. It'd be nice if you could keep your conversations and your dog at a more acceptable volume."

"Sorry," Starsky breathed, scandalized by the notion that they had been overheard—that there had been a voyeur to their private conversation—that Huntley had been privy to his building panic.

Setting his gaze on Huntley, Lucky immediately calmed. Head bowed and tail waiving exuberantly, he approached his outstretched arms.

"Heya, pal!" Huntley said, crouching to enthusiastically greet the Dalmatian. "I heard you growling. You're such a good boy, protecting your dad like that—"

"Fuck off, Huntley," Blaine snapped. "Say good-bye to the dog; this doesn't concern you."

"I'm not so sure it doesn't," Huntley laughed. "You heard the kid, Blaine, he doesn't want to go into your office without being privy to your _intensions_."

"This has nothing to do with you," Blaine repeated, his tone even but forced. "I'm having a mild _private_ issue with one of my officers…"

"In the very _public_ hallway," Huntley interjected.

"…And nobody said anything about intensions," Blaine finished. "David mistook my words."

"Oh, come on," Huntley groaned, his twinkling eyes seemingly begging the question: _What could he have mistook your words for?_

"It's nothing, Luke," Starsky whispered, nearly choking on the words. "John's right. It's my fault. I just… I misunderstood."

"Oh, he speaks!" Looking Starsky up and down, Huntley grinned. "Judging by your outfit, you're off the clock." He tilted his head, nodding toward the elevators. "Let's get out of here, huh? I'm sure Blaine has a pile of things to do and a list of other officers to coerce into his office. Let's leave him alone and go catch up."

Starsky was never more grateful for an unsolicited invitation in his life.

Xx

"You gonna tell me what the hell that was about?" Huntley asked, sitting opposite Starsky at a corner table on the rooftop deck of the Pits. Looking at Starsky expectantly, he pet Lucky's head fondly as the Dalmatian sat in-between them under the picnic table.

Sticking the straw protruding from his drink in his mouth, Starsky shrugged. He had no intention of disclosing more than Huntley had already heard—or providing explanations for things he didn't appear to understand. There was no amount of speculation worse than the truth.

 _Don't pick at your scars_ , Emily Hutchinson's words had overwhelmed him moments after exiting Metro, when he had allowed Huntley to usher him and Lucky into his car. No good would come from dwelling on the past; nothing would be accomplished by unearthing old wounds or picking at scars destined to never fully heal.

 _You can't tolerate the horrific truth_ , the subsequent warning had sprung to mind much later, when they pulled to a stop on the curb in front of the Pits. For a moment, Starsky was confused as to why Huntley would have brought him to Huggy's establishment—Huntley was more of a dimly-lit-hole-in-the-wall type of guy—but hearing Lucky whine excitedly, he was immediately overcome by the answer. Huntley hadn't chosen The Pits because he wanted to, he had taken them there because it was the only establishment they could enjoy a beer with Lucky laying at their feet—or, at least, Huntley could enjoy a beer. Still adhering to Hutch's direction, Huggy had refuse to serve Starsky alcohol and supplied him with a soda, instead.

"Never mind," Huntley said. "You don't have to tell me. You don't have to be a genius to put the pieces together."

"What pieces?" Starsky asked, feigning calm confusion.

"The puzzle pieces that make up the larger, vexing picture of you and John Blaine."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't you?" Huntley chuckled. "Listen, Starsky, I'm not here to judge you, pal. I know sometimes things happen between people that not everyone is going to accept or understand; I get that sometimes, for whatever reason, there is a pull between two people that influences them to make unsavory decisions; and we all know old habits are very hard to break. But, _Christ_ , you're married now, to Hutch, a guy that may as well be my son. So if you and Blaine are playing the horizontal secrets game, I don't think I can't turn a blind eye to it for very long."

"Nothing happened."

"Recently?"

"Ever."

Huntley rolled his eyes. "That's a lie."

"Prove it."

"I don't have to. Your tone and defensive body language are doing it for me. Now, given the conversation I overheard, I'm gathering that if something is going on again then maybe you're not quite a consensual participant."

"I'm not a participant at all." Starsky clenched his hands together tightly. At least he thought he wasn't, but there were too many gaps in his memory, too many things he couldn't explain. He didn't want to admit the truth to Huntley—given the choice, he was the last person he would pick to disclose anything to—but he couldn't admit it to anyone else. And the weight of this particular secret suddenly felt unbearable—he didn't know if he had the strength to lie, anymore.

"What happened?" Huntley pressed.

"Today?" Feeling a pang of guilty regret, Starsky shrugged despondently. "Nothing."

"Then tell me what happened before."

"Nothing," Starsky denied weakly, half-hoping Huntley would call him on the lie—or, better yet, tell him what he thought the truth was and if anyone else suspected what Huntley was so sure he knew. "Tell me about the rumors, the things people are saying about me when I'm not around."

Leaning back, Huntley looked around the scantily filled rooftop deck. "The new rumors or old?" he asked grimly.

"Both."

"Well, the old ones I'm sure you already know. You've probably caught more than a few of the scandalous musings about why Hutch isn't a cop anymore. The new rumors have an awful lot to do with the nature of the relationship between Blaine and you. They're mostly quiet, nothing more than hushed whispers about what really made him welcome you back on his team. Not that those are really new, either. There has always speculation where Blaine and his favorite officers are concerned; that's the cost of living a duel life and trusting the wrong people, a key mistake Blaine made early on in his career. The talk focusing on you and him will calm down eventually, unless there really is some truth to it."

"What else?"

Huntley looked conflicted. "There is some ongoing speculation about your mental… _capacities_. But people have been chattering about that from the start, ever since Dobey and all the other boys took a pass on your reinstatement."

"You passed over me, too," Starsky reminded, the words slightly accusing.

"Only because I didn't have a slot. Listen, Starsky, I would have loved to have you, I just didn't have the room at the time. But someday I will. Robbery isn't exactly a destination for most of the up-and-comers. The new blood want more adventure than I can give them. I would gladly take you if you're interested. If you're—"Huntley faltered, grimacing uncomfortably as he reached for his beer.

"If I'm still around when the time comes," Starsky finished, his voice cool and matter-of-fact. "If the rumors about my stability don't have any truth behind them, either."

"That rumor is particularly rampant," Huntley said somberly. "And the bodies you miraculously found, the whispers of your instability at crime scenes, and your recent, sporadic, absences aren't helping matters much. I know Blaine has been taking some heat from the boys upstairs for letting you come and go; Ryan thinks you're a bad risk, that your superior has a habit of being too lenient on you. Talk like that isn't exactly helping the other rumors and people are gonna draw their own conclusions, pal." He forced a comforting smile. "I wouldn't worry about things you can't control, if I were you."

"Then what should I worry about?" Starsky asked, though he knew he had plenty of things to spark concern— the bodies in his dreams, his lingering confusion and dread, Hutch's basement project, and secret he shared with Blaine were all teaming up on him now, waiting to overwhelm him with helplessness at any given time.

"Not the bullshit gossip other people have to talk about you in order to distract themselves from their own terrible lives. I don't know. Worry about things you can fix, things you can change. Worry about getting enough sleep. Worry about heading to the mall and buying news clothes, from the looks of your outfit that hasn't happened for quite a while." Huntley grinned, his eyes glistening. "Worry about that nosy, little, public-access reporter. Jesus, what's her name…. Callie Baker! She's been hanging around Metro asking all sorts of questions about you."

"What kind of questions?"

"The kind that nobody is _ever_ going to answer. She heard about the dead men you found and has been trying to get someone to confirm her suspicions."

"Which are what?" Starsky snorted, his dislike for Baker simmering hotly in his chest. She was young, arrogant, and pushy. Too dangerous to have lurking around, waiting to ask uncomfortable questions at inopportune times.

"Ah, same old shtick as her public assess show. She's determined to make a groundbreaking story out of nothing. She's got it into her head that there's some serial killer running around the city wiping out felons. It's bunch of exaggerated garbage if you ask me. She's young and hungry for a break, reaching for a huge story that's going to make her relevant in other people's eyes, or at least justify her obscene fixation on what everyone else goes to great lengths to ignore. Besides, she doesn't know what you and I do."

"What's that?"

"That sometimes bad guys do things, they piss off the right people and get themselves killed. I don't want to say they ask for it but you know. If someone has done hard time, especially for the kind of crimes these guys were put away for, when they're paroled sometimes people go looking for retribution. And sometimes felons just disappear. Doesn't mean they're dead, it just means they've left the grid; they've run off, started over somewhere else, as someone else."

Though Starsky couldn't bring himself to believe Huntley's assessment, he didn't have the energy to agree or the audacity to explain what he knew—what the charred man had been careful to ensure he knew. Of course the felons were dead, what other explanation for their disappearances were there—or the prominent scars inevitably marring their distorted cheeks?

Their secrets had killed them, Starsky thought feverishly. The weight of the horrifying things they had done—whatever those were—had suffocated them until they had no other choice but to give into fate and death. Suddenly, he was overwhelmed by dread, paralyzed by a maddening thought circling his brain: What had happened to them would eventually happen him. As the charred man had warned, it was only a matter of time before the truth came out. It always did.

"How's Hutch?" Huntley asked. "I haven't seen him in a while, and it takes an act of God to get him on the phone these days. I swear, I don't know if I should be worried about his silence or relieved that he seems to be getting on with his life. The way he disappeared after getting canned, I suppose I should be relieved. At least now we know where he is. It's hard not to worry about him, though. He's too stoic; too secretive; and too removed from the rest of us now that he's a civilian, again."

"Yeah," Starsky agreed absently, his mind still captive to other things. Matthew Avery had been killed by a knife, the charred man by fire. If Callie Baker and the charred man where to be believed then there were more men left to discover—more horrific excruciating deaths to be privy to. What terrible way to die would be left when it was his turn, and what could possibly save him now? He didn't know what had condemned him—something had, his scar was proof of that—but would the truth—what little he firmly knew—absolve him from his impending fate, whatever it was destined to be?

"The rumors about Blaine and me are true," Starsky admitted, surprising even himself with the soft disclosure. One moment, he had been thinking the words and the next they were out of his mouth. He hadn't wanted to say them; he had only wanted to imagine what it would be like if he had.

Holding his beer glass inches from his open mouth, Huntley stared at him wide-eyed. Starsky realized swiftly that he hadn't known the truth he had alluded to —he had suspected, speculated about the nature of relationship he and Blaine had shared—but he hadn't known for sure. And theorizing about the truth—probing for it in lighthearted jest—was drastically different from being privy to the weighted responsibility of it.

Huntley hadn't known, but what was he going to do with the information now that he did?

"You can't tell anybody," Starsky added frantically. "I don't know why I even told you."

"I don't know why you told me, either," Huntley whispered in astonishment as he slammed his beer on the table a little too hard. The amber liquid swayed violently, spilling over the sides of the glass in a foamy heap. "I mean… I do. I was leading you, prompting your disclosure, setting you up to confide in me if there was anything to tell. But _shit_ , Starsky, I didn't really think it was true. All the hubbub about you and Blaine, that's a just rumor. A silly bit of gossip people spew to entertain themselves. I didn't _want_ to _believe_ it was true. I mean, the idea of you and Blaine that's just too odd to wrap my head around… _Christ_... That son of a bitch!" Pounding his fist on the table, his face reddened with rage. "How the hell did it happen? How did a good kid like you end up mixed up with a black hole like Blaine?"

"He's not a bad guy," Starsky said quietly. "He's strong and kind."

"Are you fucking kidding me? I've known him since our academy days, Blaine has _never_ been kind. If it wasn't for him the truth about Hutch's past never would have been discovered. He's the reason your husband lost his career! How did Blaine get his hands on you Starsky?"

"He didn't _get his hands on me_ ," Starsky snapped. "Jesus, I wasn't a kid. I was legal; it wasn't at all sordid or wrong."

"Then why does it need to be hidden?"

"Because..." Starsky didn't have a good justification for the secrets shrouding the past. It hadn't been wrong but it was. Hutch didn't know the truth, nobody did and nobody could—well, almost nobody knew. They had been careful, but somehow—by some odd twist of fate—someone had stumbled upon the truth.

 _"I can't believe you're doing this!"_ Uncle Al's angry words came rushing back. " _He's nearly twice your age! It has to stop. This is the kind of thing that ruins families, the kind of thing that ruins lives. I don't give a shit who you date, who you want to bring home, or share your life with. But John Blaine is a married man; if he wants to mess around on his wife it isn't going to be with you!"_

 _"But I love him,"_ Starsky had replied, the only time he had dared say the words out loud. He had been so young then, twenty-five, but he was old enough to know what he wanted and how he felt.

 _"You better pick someone else to love. This ends now, David. If you don't break it off then I'll do it for you. And that's going to be one hell of a mess, for both of you."_

But they didn't break it off, they only got better at hiding it.

"It was wrong," Starsky whispered, holding Huntley's inquisitive gaze. "Because he's married. I grew up across the street from him; he's a lot older than me, and sometimes—some people—can have a hard time with things like that."

"Is it still going on?"

Ignoring the question, Starsky reached for Lucky's calming presence under the table. "Do you think Hutch knows?" he asked quietly, his husband's earlier veiled suggestions circling his mind: _Working under John Blaine again is overwhelming for you._ Working under Blaine was overwhelming, but not for the right reasons. "About Blaine and me?"

"He knows about the rumors for sure. As far as the truth goes," Huntley lifted his hand, "I have no idea. I know he was pretty intent on ignoring the gossip when he heard it; he'd tell anyone to shut their mouths if they ever started spewing that shit in his company. Poor kid used to defend Blaine. Even when he had been called for his hearing, the day before he got canned, he sat right across from me and defended John Blaine against the claims you just told me were true. Can you believe that shit?"

"No," Starsky lied. Unsolicited advocacy always came easily to Hutch; he was always rooting and defending the underdog, not that Blaine was an underdog; he was too calculated, too authoritative to be thought of in such a way. "He's not a bad guy," he repeated, feeling a nauseating combination of shame and guilt churn his stomach as he was assaulted by the charred man's words: _With all the terrible events your husband was responsible for, it is easy to become too accustomed to holding him responsible for all the things that cause you shame._ And he did have so much shame. Starsky had a whole list of things he wished he could change. It started with Hutch and ended with John Blaine.

"Well, of course he isn't," Huntley said. "Hutch is a good guy, and so are you."

"I'm not that good," Starsky whispered, tears thickening his words. "Blaine digging up the Hutch's past and getting him fired, I'm responsible for all of it. It's my fault."

"How do you figure that?"

"Because it's the truth. What happened to me could have happened to anyone else in the department. Marcus could have set his sights on any other person at Metro and Blaine wouldn't have cared. But something chose Hutch, and it chose me. Blaine doesn't care about Hutch or his past. He doesn't care _why_ any of it happened, he doesn't understand."

"Before he was dismissed, I told Hutch Blaine was going after him because he was angry," Huntley said gravely. "That he was seeking revenge because Hutch stole you from him and his department. It isn't all of it, is it?"

"I didn't know," Starsky admitted tearfully. "When I started messing around with him I didn't know what it would lead to; I didn't know what it would mean. I was young. Confused about who I was and who I wanted to be. And when Hutch came along, I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how not to need them both."

"Blaine still loves you," Huntley whispered insistently. "That's why he was so intent on taking Hutch down, why he fought so hard to bring you back. And you… _Christ_!" He paused, shaking his head in an exasperated manner. "You love him, too."

"Hutch can't know, Luke. Nobody can _ever_ know."

"Tell me it ended, pal. Tell me it's over; tell me it's not going to happen again."

"Some secrets are meant to be kept. Somethings you don't know are going to hurt you until it's too late. You see, the problem now is everyone thinks that everything that happened to me was Hutch's fault; they think his life crumbled because he built it on a lie. What they don't know is that maybe I did, too."

TBC


	47. Chapter Forty-Seven

Venice Place was dark and still under the light of a full moon. Pulling his key from the deadbolt on the front door, Starsky was quick to turn the light switch, illuminating the steep staircase and upstairs hallway in a muted hue. Shoving the keyring deep into the front pocket of his ripped jeans, he stood at the bottom of the stairs for a moment. His gaze traveled from one end of the hallway to the other, absently noting the open bedroom doors and the peculiar deep darkness that lingered in the spaces just beyond the reach of the recessed lighting. He was unaccustomed to being in the apartment alone at night, and listening to the eerie silence, he fought the urge to turn and leave. But even if he did, he had nowhere to go and no way to get there.

The Camaro was parked in the lot at Metro; after finishing their agonizing conversation, Lucas Huntley had dropped both him and Lucky off with a promise to return in the morning. It was a nice gesture on the surface, but Starsky knew the worry it was born from; the careful suggestion had less to do with ensuring he made it to work the next day and more to do with allowing Huntley an opportunity to physically verify Hutch's wellbeing. Hutch had begun ignoring phone calls and neglecting text messages, again; all recent bids for communication from Huntley, the man who had once been his mentor—arguably his greatest advocate and confidant—had gone ignored.

The behavior was odd if Starsky really considered it so he tried not to. Hutch had never been good at returning messages or answering his phone, yet, Starsky knew—somehow _he knew_ —this time, his husband's avoidance was purposeful. He was creating a new life for himself and—no matter how beloved or appreciated—there were just some people who were destined to be left behind. Huntley was privy to Hutch's secrets—just as he knew Starsky's now—and someone like that had no place with the new image Hutch was cultivating as a solid, dependable, together guy; cool but caring, yet, oddly—suddenly—introverted and secretive.

What had happened to him—what happened to _them_? Starsky wondered suddenly. How had one traumatizing event—how had the final disclosure of one horrific secret—been allowed to change their lives so radically?

Sitting at Starsky's feet, Lucky whined impatiently, his dark eyes seemingly begging him to move up the stairs and into the comfort of the living room. The Dalmatian didn't share his conflict, it seemed, or his apprehension about Hutch's absence and their empty home.

Pulling his iPhone from his jeans pocket, Starsky frowned. The preview screen was lit up with an array of things: a missed call and voicemail alert from Aunt Rosie, texts message from both Whitley and Blaine, but nothing from Hutch. They hadn't seen each other since this morning, and the absence of contact was disconcerting. Hutch's text message check-in's had become predictable—expected—often ignored but comforting.

For a moment, Starsky wondered if Huntley hadn't somehow disclosed what he had foolishly confided. Though, he knew the chances of that were slim; Huntley wasn't underhanded. He was a trustworthy confidant—to a point. After all, he had quietly safeguarded Hutch's deepest secrets for years.

Shoving the phone into his pocket, he forced a calming exhale, suddenly overcome by daunting memories of another time when the apartment had been dark and empty, and Hutch had left without a word.

The night Hutch had disappeared Starsky had been alone, tortured by a hushed invisible voice, and frightened by the dark. And when it had all became too much for him, when his helpless panic had hit a tipping point and he dissolved into frantic tears, he hadn't called Huggy, or Aunt Rosie, or Uncle Al. He had called someone he had sworn he never would.

 _"Hutch is gone_!" Starsky had sobbed. _"He left this morning for Metro and he hasn't come back!"_

 _"Oh, David,"_ Blaine groaned regretfully. _"I was afraid he would do this."_

 _"Where is he?!"_

 _"I don't know."_

 _"What happened?"_

 _"Ryan dismissed him. Fired him, bud."_

 _"No!"_ Starsky said hysterically. _"He can't do that. W-why would he do that?"_

 _"He can and he did. I'm so sorry, Davy."_

And he had been sorry—Starsky was sure the elder man was—because when he had asked him to come, Blaine had without a hint of hesitation. Though Starsky had vowed never to forgive Blaine after he pursued Hutch's involvement in his abduction—Starsky's brutal captivity at the Marcus Compound—the threat meant nothing in that moment. Feeling lost and confused, terrified and grief-stricken, Starsky had allowed Blaine to comfort him in the way only he or Hutch ever could as he held him tightly and tenderly and allowed to him cry.

The stairs groaned under Starsky's weight, intermixing with the soft clipping of Lucky's toenails as they tapped against the hardwood floors. Moving slowly through the apartment, he turned on every light he could, chasing away the darkness and illuminating the familiar confines with comforting hues. Standing in the middle of the living room, he turned on the TV, decreasing the volume to a near whisper as the colorful, cartoon images moved rapidly on the screen.

A thick, sealed Manila file sat in the middle of the coffee table, a blue post it note clinging precariously to the front was marked with Whitley's big block lettering. He stared absently at it for a moment, not making any effort to understand the words, not feeling any desire to be privy to what was hidden inside. His body was numb, his heart weighted with everything that had been done—the horrible secret he had foolishly disclosed.

The apartment felt vastly different than it had in the morning, empty and obscure, but remnants of Hutch surrounded him. His essence was in everything from the dark oak floorboards and rustic décor to the minimally decorated kitchen and the brick patio overrun with leafy plants; if his husband was a location then Venice Place would be it. And to the outside eye their life together was perfect—something to aspire to. They had everything anyone could ever want: shiny vehicles, twin silver wedding bands, a beautiful home, and a level of financial security that most people only dream about. They had their freedom—to a point—they didn't have to do anything they really didn't want to do. Starsky's return to work and been ceremonial, Hutch's basement project something to do—but neither of those things were really necessary. Were they?

Hutch had tried hard to fix everything. He had done what he could to ease Starsky's confusion, to mend all the things they both insisted he was responsible for. But what was he really was fixing and for what purpose? They were both responsible for had happened. They had both contributed to the storm of events that had unraveled their lives.

Hutch had lied about his childhood but Starsky had his own demons. A brother and mother back east who had been left behind by circumstance and lingering feelings for man who he had been banned from loving but was never able to let go of. And Starsky had his own secrets: ignored bids for increased contact and rejected invitations for visits from the family he had been torn from when he was a child and the handful of times he had run into the arms of another man when things with Hutch just seemed too rough.

In Hutch's absence, Blaine had taken Starsky away from the perfect home he had built. Hiding him in a secret apartment on the other side of town, he had reminded Starsky of how safe he could feel. Blaine didn't ask for anything Starsky couldn't give; he didn't ask for anything at all—not that Starsky was capable of much. He was a mess, a cluster of panic and paranoia. Spurred on by whispers only he could hear and captive to insatiable fear about shadows and darkness he had stopped sleeping, spending his time endlessly pacing the well-lit confines of the apartment. But even then, Blaine didn't press or pry.—He stood back, allowing Starsky the room complete whatever irrational behavior seemed necessary at the time. He didn't mention hospitals, or make vile comparisons between the dissolution of Starsky's mental stability and how his mother's illness had presented.—He didn't have to; there were no secrets between them, no amount of time that could ever destroy their rooted foundation.

Lucky wined, scratching impatiently at the cabinet next to the refrigerator. He watched expectantly as Starsky shook his head and complied with the request, striding to the cabinet to gather a hearty scoop of dog kibble that was swiftly deposited into the dog's stainless-steal food bowl. Picking up the matching water bowl from the floor, Starsky moved quietly to the kitchen sink, dumping the slimy water down the drain, replacing it with cold, filtered water from the tap on the face of the refrigerator. His movements were mechanical, his thoughts preoccupied with other things.

His time with Blaine had come to an abrupt end when Hutch returned, and his life—their life together—had transformed into a blur of things: feelings too fierce and strong to ever be spoken of— simmering anger and blame, overt grief and frustration— intermixed with sporadic hospital visits and declines, a marriage born of guilt and duty, Starsky's stubborn obsession with regaining his lost career, and Hutch's obstinate need to run away.

Watching Lucky devour his food, Starsky was overcome by an unsettling thought: Where was Hutch now?

Had he and Mitchell disappeared for another boisterous night, moving obnoxiously through the city, bouncing from one bar to the next until the early morning hours? Or perhaps Mitchell was on his own tonight; maybe, preoccupied with his own secrets and darkness, Hutch had chosen to hide himself away in the basement, again. Perhaps, he was sitting on the ragged flooring directly below where Starsky stood.

Or maybe Hutch left with Mitchell after all. Perhaps, Huntley had devised a covert way to tell Hutch the truth, and driven by the disclosure of Starsky's scandalous past with John Blaine Hutch had sought respite at the bars, numbing himself with too much alcohol and looking to make a mistake that would even the adulterous score.

Creeping into their bedroom, Starsky forced himself to abandon the torturous thoughts. There was little he could to do change the past now, or lighten the agonizing weight of Huntley's parting words: " _If Hutch doesn't know the truth about Blaine, then he should. You've come too far, you guys are too tight to let secrets fester and fracture you now. Tell him the truth, Starsky. It isn't like he didn't have secrets, too, things he wanted to hide. He loves you so much, he'll understand."_

Starsky didn't share Huntley's optimism. How could Hutch understand—or forgive—something he barely understood himself? Did he really want him to? And how could Starsky began to explain the most glaring detail of all: Did he still love John Blaine?

The pull of a first love was always enchanting. The memories of his time with Blaine were perfect, idyllic, deep-seeded, and impenetrable. Of course he still loved Blaine. With memories like that, how could his those feeling possibly go away?

Xx

The forest was still, cloaked in a peculiar blackness, and not nearly as comforting as it once had been. The darkness had surrounded it, seeping into every rock and crevice, every hole in every tree, leaving charred devastation in its wake. Thick, gray ash clung to air, floating listlessly. The vast land looked as though it had been engulfed by a forest fire whose embers had recently moved on to hungrily devoir another part of the area.

Surrounded by soaring skeletal trees, Starsky stood immobile, dreadfully frozen in a sliver of moonlight. Bare feet sinking into the debris covered ground, pain-prompted goosebumps peppered his naked skin—an ignored request by his body to heed the pain biting the bottom of his cracked, bleeding feet and the suffocating thickness of the air. Breaths coming in deep-chested gasps and wide eyes locked on the object before him, he was too preoccupied with his terror to pay attention to anything else. Sitting untouched in the ground was a familiar square, the entry to a bunker hidden deep in the belly of the unfamiliar woods.

He had been happy to be in the green forest once more, euphoric to find the charred man following in his footsteps as they traveled mile after silent mile with no set destination and no worry weighing down his body or mind. But just as so many things before it, this place had changed; the further they traveled the worst the landscape became. Penetrated by darkness, the forest had been destroyed, transformed into something to be feared, a place to be respected and avoided at all costs.

Gritty whispers surrounded him, deep guttural sounds that emerged from the thick, solid cloud of darkness threatening to engulf the blackened, emaciated trees. Creeping, it moved ever-so-slightly, cutting through the desolate forest floor, consuming all it touched, absorbing it into its dense black mass.

"Why did you bring me here?" Starsky asked, his voice hushed but demanding, wavering with terror. He didn't want to be here. After longing to return to this place why would he be forced to see it like this? "I told you I wasn't ready for this, that I didn't want to face what happened down there."

"Not wanting to face the truth doesn't make it nonexistent," the charred man said, his soft voice resolute. "Avoiding the past gives it power. It makes it easy for fate to exploit you. Look at what happened to your husband, how the truth he hid unraveled the life you built together. Had he disclosed his secret to you none of this would have had to happen."

"If you're adhering to that logic then it really never should have happened! I knew his secret! He never told me but I knew long before Marcus put me in that bunker."

"You found his hidden files, but that was not the same as hearing the truth from your husband's lips. The files filled your mind with speculation, hints of a larger truth you couldn't possibly understand out of context."

"There was plenty of context!" Starsky snapped, his anxiety spiking. The guttural whispers of the woods were changing, morphing into an inhuman, elongated shriek. Something terrible was coming. Something horrid that refused to be stopped. "I'm not stupid; I know how to interpret fucking medical records. I know how to read between the lines of a police report!"

"You're angry," the charred man said simply. "Why?"

"Of course I'm angry! I don't want to be here. I wanted to see you; I wanted to walk this place, but not like this."

"Refusing to acknowledge what is in front of you doesn't make it nonexistent."

"I loved this place and you... You made it dark and terrible. You ruined it!"

"Just as your husband ruined things?"

"No!" Starsky didn't want to talk about that, though there was little purpose to avoiding it now. This forest had been perfect and how it was ruined. Sullied by ill-timed probing and the underlying truth. "You abandoned me today," he accused. "I needed you and you weren't there."

The charred man smiled. "You have no idea what you really need. Did telling the truth to your husband's friend help or harm you?"

"I don't know, yet."

"Yes, you do."

"It helped me," Starsky admitted tersely. "It felt good to finally tell someone. But it'll hurt Hutch—it'll hurt us, who we are together."

"Perhaps, disclosing the truth will make you stronger, or maybe it will make you weaker, instead. Although, maybe that's what you really want, for your anger to fracture what little remains between you and your husband. Then you would be free to repeat the mistakes of your youth."

"I don't want that," Starsky denied. And he didn't. A life with Blaine was improbable, and life without Hutch was no life at all.

"Then why did you run to your superior again? Why did you allow him to take care of you when your husband disappeared?"

"I don't know."

"That's a lie."

"I didn't run to him. I asked him to come and he did. It was easy. Hutch was gone and I was...scared. It was comforting to have Blaine there."

"His certainty consumed you. You are drawn to his strength, you always have been and you always will be. You idolize your superior because of his age, because of his ability to remain composed when fate demands a reaction, and because his secrets, though there are many, have never hurt you the way your husband's have."

"Blaine would never allow anything to hurt me. He wouldn't pick keeping his secrets over my safety. He wouldn't have responded to Marcus the way Hutch did."

"But, in the end, your husband did save you."

"He was too late," Starsky snapped angrily. "The worst was already done. There was no going back after that. He wouldn't tell me the truth about his childhood so the darkness showed me instead. He couldn't share his pain so fate ensured I understood. He's always too damn late, and I'm sick of making excuses for him. I'm tired of letting him push me as far as I can go while he stays stubbornly in place. I'm tired of ignoring how I feel to accommodate him. Though I don't know what I really should expect from him; he doesn't know how to properly love, you know."

"Perhaps, neither do you. Your husband doesn't know how to need people, that's true. He doesn't know how to be loved unconditionally. But you don't know how not to need others and there are conditions attached to the love you chose to give. People fail you and you erase them from your life."

"That's not true."

"Your mother and brother are alive, yet, you avoid them because of the things they've done…"

"That's different."

"…Your husband knows this; his fear of you is as powerful as your anger towards him. That is what made him chose what he did. That's why he sought respite in the darkness; why he fills your life with distance and distractions. He fears the silence, the empty moments when you have no choice but to talk about everything you've left unsaid."

The charred man pointed to the bunker and Starsky stubbornly shook his head. He wouldn't do it; he couldn't take a step closer to that horrifying place. He couldn't contend with the darkness, with the horrible feelings and memories the depths would awaken.

"No! I won't go down there. I can't go into the dark again! There is nothing you can do, nothing you can say that would make me go down there again!"

"Then you are no different than your husband, you only pretend as though you are. When faced with the pain of the past you do everything you can to look away. When presented with hints of the darkness your husband has allowed to become embedded in your lives you ignore it. Neither of you know how properly love the other; neither of you know how accept the truth each of you are struggling to hide."

Starsky jumped as the shrieking intensified. Painfully high pitched and sharp, the abrasive noise filled the forest. He pressed his hands against his ears, certain they would bleed any moment from the damaging sound. "What's happening?" he screamed, though he already knew the answer: Something terrible had come. It crouched beside him, waiting to consume him into its depths.

"You should be mindful of the places you seek for safety," the charred man said, his lips unmoving as the words echoed in Starsky's head. "The darkness is seeping in. Fate is closer now than she has ever been. You must go forward because you cannot go back. But you cannot fully understand how to stop the darkness, how to stop him, if you do not tell the truth. If you do not allow yourself to see and accept the pain that brought you and your husband here."

The ground dipped and swayed beneath Starsky's feet, throwing him off balance and sending him tumbling to lay upon his back on the hot ash covered ground. He felt invisible hands clench his shoulders, squeezing them insistently.

Planting his palms beneath his body, Starsky opened his mouth to scream and woke with gasp. Jolting to sit upright, the sheets pooled around his hips as he struggled to breath.

"Take it easy," Hutch murmured. Kneeling on the side of the bed, he watched Starsky curiously. "You're dripping in sweat; that must have been a hell of a dream."

"The lights," Starsky hissed, his voice dry and panicked as his gaze locked on active nightlight on the wall. Light was filtering into the room from the crack in the bathroom door, but it wasn't enough to calm his fear, to chase away the vivid images of his nightmare. "Please... it's too dark in here... I need all the lights on."

Standing, Hutch silently complied, turning on the recessed lighting on the ceiling, then pushing the bathroom door open. "Better?" he asked gruffly. Towering at the side of the bed, his gaze was aloof, his face unreadable. Stale cigarette smoke clung to his crumpled clothes and on his breath was a telltale warning of one-too-many-beers.

"Yeah." Exhaling his last heaving breath, Starsky shook his head to clear the stubborn dream from the depths of his mind. The mattress swayed and dipped again as Lucky walked the end of the bed in a tight disgruntled circle, canvassing yet another spot to lay down. "What time is it?"

"Late—early—depending on how you want to look at it, I guess. Nearly four am."

"Are you coming or going?" Starsky asked, taking in Hutch's unkempt appearance—a far cry from the calm collected man he had said good-bye to that morning. He looked tired. No, not tired. Exhausted. It was as though he hadn't slept in days. In his distant eyes there was a hint of a flicker, a stubborn angry gleam, a warning that at any moment he could implode.

"I just got home," Hutch said. "But I'm leaving again soon."

"Where you been?"

"Nowhere."

"Who you been with?"

"Nobody."

"What have you been doing?"

"Nothing."

"How could you be nowhere, doing nothing with nobody?" Starsky frowned, unconsciously repeating the same question Hutch had directed at him too many times to count.

"What is this, an interrogation?" Hutch scoffed bitterly, holding his hands up in mock surrender. "Oh, _please_ , Mr.-Police-Man let me off with a warning. I promise I wasn't up to no good, and I swear, I'll be home by curfew next time. Give it a fucking rest, huh? Why do you suddenly care where I spend my time?"

"It's the middle of the night. You had to have been somewhere if you weren't at home where you belong."

" _Where I belong_. Oh, look who's talking; you don't get to judge me. You've spent more time trying to avoid where you belong than you have under the roof of our home!" Taking an angry step back, Hutch's body swayed drunkenly, his wavering legs barely remaining upright.

"Don't be an ass," Starsky spat, nervous anger burning in his chest. " _Jesus_ , will you sit down before you fall over. It's four in the morning, the bars closed hours ago, why the hell are you drunk?"

"I think the real question that needs to asked is: Why the hell aren't you?" Hutch countered, sinking to sit heavily on the side of the bed. " _God_ ," he sighed desolately in the palms of his hands. "What a shit day. It started off so well and then… absolute fucking shit."

"Yeah." Starsky agreed guiltily. It had been a terrible day, and it was about to get worse. Huntley had told Hutch the truth—he _must_ have. What other explanation was there for his husband's drunken appearance and ill-concealed hostility? Pulling his legs out from under the sheets, Starsky swung them over the side of the bed, shimming his body to sit next to Hutch. "Want to talk about it?" he asked softly, the words thudding in his heart as he hoped that Hutch would say no.

He didn't want to talk about it; if Hutch knew the truth about Blaine, then discussing—or arguing about—what had been done was the last thing he wanted to do. But the charred man was right—on more than one account. They couldn't go back, yet, they couldn't move forward without paying heed to the past, or disclosing the heart wrenching truth. It was much better to hear legitimate facts from the person who had lived it—gossip and speculation, secondhand stories were always worse than hearing the actual truth from the person who could properly tell it.

"Are you kidding?" Hutch snorted. Resting his head in his hands, he peered at Starsky through eyes slit with skepticism. "Since when do _you_ care about _my_ day?"

"I always care. You're the most important person in my life," Starsky asserted. He didn't want to tell the truth about Blaine; he didn't want hear the remaining ugly details about Hutch's childhood, and he certainly didn't want to enter the foreboding bunker of his dreams. But some things just couldn't be avoided. He had to go forward because there was no going back, no returning to another time, another place. The life they had before Simon Marcus was gone.

"Yeah, right," Hutch grumbled. Rubbing his hands through his hair in a taxed manner, he exhaled heartily, squeezing his eyes shut. "I have to go. I can't stay here; I have so many things I have to get done before..." he stopped, opening his haunted eyes to stare forlornly at the floor.

"Before what?" Starsky prompted, despite his instinct to ignore the statement—to flee the conversation and the room. He didn't want to know what Hutch thought he had to do—before he packed up and left because he had found out his husband was a cheat, before he crawled into the depths of the basement to drown himself in booze and lick the wounds the terrible disclosure had left him with. "You know, Hutch, you once told me that I could ask you anything and you'd tell me the truth. Do you remember that?"

"Oh, come on, David. This isn't the time for questions. I'm too tired to endure a conversation like this, or talk you down when you lose it because the answers are too hard for you to hear."

"I don't want ask you any questions. I just I wanted you to know that..." Starsky hesitated, unsure of his words, suddenly—achingly—uncertain if he wanted to reciprocate his husband's previous proclamation. But nothing wouldn't last if they kept lying to each other. If they remained intent on not learning from the past but burying it instead. They were stronger together then they ever were apart, they both knew that. It was why they were still sitting next to each other, why they clung to one another despite the confusion and darkness seeping in and out of their lives. "I just wanted you to know that that offer stands for me, too," he finished finally, feeling a rush of nervousness as Hutch stared at him, his expression not angry or surprised, rather amused. Little by little Starsky felt his nervousness transform into anger, and long silent moments passed before either of them said another word.

"That's really fucking nice, David," Hutch said, the words patronizing with hint of a slur. "But if you really believe you have any secrets left that I don't know about then you better think again. I know everything about you, all your thoughts, all your dreams, your deepest darkest secrets, and your worst fears. Even the most shameful things you don't want to share with anybody, I know."

"I slept with John Blaine," Starsky snapped hotly, quickly discarding Hutch's odd words. This was wrong; he didn't want to tell Hutch this way. The information was meant to be disclosed gently, carefully, not as furious ammunition to escalate an argument, not as harsh words said with the intent to wound. "He and I had a relationship that didn't end when it should have. When you and I started seeing each other I stopped seeing him, but I didn't stop sleeping with him until well after we moved into the beach house."

"I _know_ ," Hutch repeated, drunkenly elongating words in an impatient manner.

"What do you mean _you know_? Did Huntley tell you?"

"No. He didn't have to."

"Then who did? How the hell did you know?"

"Maybe the question you want to ask yourself is: How could you _not_ know that I know? Especially with the things you dream about."

"You're not making any sense!"

"Then you're not listening properly."

"You're the one who needs to learn how to listen! Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to say that to you? And you're not even mad. I told you I had a relationship with another person while with you, that I _cheated_ on you, and you don't even care!"

Starsky stood, towering over his husband, his fists clenched in rage. What was the purpose of disclosing painful things to such an unwilling—unaccepting—audience? Huntley was wrong, Hutch didn't understand. And what little love that was left between them wasn't enough. The apartment and the cars, the rings and money wasn't enough to make him happy—to make _them_ love each other the way they once had.

"I thought you were leaving," he whispered, the words thick in his throat. He didn't want Hutch to leave; he only wanted a proper opportunity to tell the truth. What had happened between him and Blaine had mattered—it had mattered _so much_. He didn't want Hutch to be angry but he couldn't stand his disclosure being so easily dismissed.

"You don't want me to leave," Hutch laughed knowingly, a hint of madness to his words. "Why do you always do this? Why do you always have to make everything about you, about your struggle, about your guilt? People make mistakes, David; there's no reason to torture yourself over it. You liked the way Blaine made you feel when he fucked you, so what?"

"How can you _not_ care?"

"Why do you care so much? _Excuse me_ for not holding you hostage to a mistake. For not making you feel worse than I know you already do. What's the point of that? There isn't one. There's no purpose to it. You haven't slept with Blaine in years and you're not going to sleep with him again, so why should get I get upset about it?"

"Yeah, well, maybe I will!" Starsky fumed. "Maybe I slept with him today!"

"Oh, really? Are you experiencing a sudden liberation from your sexual hesitation that I'm unaware of? You can barely handle being touched most of the time; I'm sorry if I'm not exactly worried about you running and jumping into someone else's bed."

Starsky's face hardened. How dare Hutch say such a horrible thing? How dare he draw attention to such a sensitive matter in such a nonchalant way? The words hurt, cut so deep that even captive to deep vindictive anger, Starsky couldn't think of a word to say. He clenched his hands in frustration, his gaze not leaving his husband's glistening eyes. What happened to him—what was happening to them?

"Oh, Christ," Hutch sighed. "Don't be mad. I'm not going to argue with you about this." Rubbing his palms over his face, he softened his tone. "There's nothing to fight about. I don't care that you fucked around with Blaine. It doesn't matter to me, maybe at one point it would have but it doesn't anymore. There's a lot of stuff I hid from you; there were plenty of times I was mean or distant. If I would have been better to you back then, if I would have known how to talk about my secrets or my pain, then maybe you wouldn't have felt the need to run to somebody else when things between us were really hard. I don't care that it happened back then. The only thing that matters to me is that it doesn't happen now, that it hasn't happened since I put that ring on your finger."

"It hasn't," Starsky whispered stubbornly. "And it won't."

"Good."

"I'm sorry that I did it. That I did something without thinking about how it would hurt you."

"You can't love someone and never hurt them. It's difficult to always do the right thing, to always make the right choice. It's impossible to contain a truth that fate is insisting be told. You may not want to share it but she'll make sure everyone knows. She'll scream it from the rooftops, or corner you if she has to, but she always gets what she wants. There's no stopping it, no stopping her."

"What do you know about fate?" Starsky breathed, taken aback by his husband's calm statements and conflict etched in face. The charred man's words echoed dreadfully in his head: _The darkness is seeping in. Fate is closer now than she has ever been._

Hutch cringed, his eyes glistening. "I tried," he whispered. "I really, really tried. But it wasn't enough. I thought I could help. But it didn't work." He shook his head helplessly. "How was I supposed to know what was going to happen and what it would all mean? How was I supposed to predict that nothing would change fate, that nothing could happen any way but how she intended it to?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I brought him here because he was sick..."

" _Who_?"

"...I brought him here because I thought I could help. I thought I could save him."

"Hutch," Starsky said insistently. Crouching, he grasped Hutch's hands firmly and was overcome by such an overpowering feeling of wrongness that he had to let go. "What happened?" he asked, his stomach churning relentlessly as he was assaulted by a dormant memory of an irrefutable truth: Jack Mitchell had come to Bay City because he was sick; he moved in with them because he had an inoperable brain tumor. But where was he now? Had Hutch gone out drinking alone or had he been in the company of someone—something—else?

"I tried to save him," Hutch whispered. "I really tried to make him better. It worked with you, why couldn't it work with him...?"

"Where's Jack, Hutch?"

"...You heard voices and then they were gone. I made them go away. She allowed it to work with you. Why didn't she want it to work with him?"

"Where is he?!"

"This day started off so well," Hutch repeated, "and then it turned to shit."

"If you don't answer me, I'm going to—!"

"What?" Hutch scoffed, his voice quiet and humorless. "What are you going to do? Fall asleep and talk about me to your _dream friend,_ again? Take a long scenic walk and then wake up screaming when he tries to force you to face the truth?"

"How do you know about my dreams?"

"I already told you. You can't hide _anything_ from me. I wish you could— _oh, Christ_ —sweetheart, you have no idea how much I wish you could, but you can't."

"What did you do?" Starsky whispered insistently. Cool dread was seeping through his body, peppering his skin with goosebumps, leaving his heart pounding anxiously in his chest. Something was wrong. Something was _so incredibly_ wrong. "Where's Jack?"

"You'll be happy to know that he doesn't live here anymore."

"Why?"

"Because he's dead."

TBC


	48. Chapter Forty-Eight

The sun rose as dawn crept through the city, swiftly chasing away the darkness of night with promising rays of red and orange. Standing in front of Venice Place, Starsky tightened the armband containing his iPhone on his upper arm, shoved his earbuds in his ears, wrapped the slack in Lucky's leash around his wrist, and took off running.

Hours had passed since Hutch had returned home drunken and upset, slurring odd statements about Starsky's dreams and fate, dismissing his husband's knee-jerk disclosure about Blaine too easily, and then disclosing an equally unsettling admission of his own in the form of a strange vile statement: _You'll be happy to know Jack longer lives here because he's dead._

Hutch's eyes had been glistening when he said it, not with sadness or inebriation but with something that had become hauntingly uncharacteristic. In that moment, with cold uncertainty creeping through his body, Starsky had known—without a doubt he _had known_ —that Hutch was terrified. But terrified of what, he didn't know.

Considering the conversation now, running with Lucky eagerly matching his pace, Starsky would have liked to imagine he had felt courageous after Hutch's odd statements, that he had immediately pressed him for more information or demanded he explain his words— _all_ of his words—instead of standing shocked and mute in the middle of the room.

It wouldn't have mattered anyway, Starsky reminded himself. Even if he would have had felt brave enough to ask the questions they would have went unanswered. Lying heavily on his back, Hutch had groaned as he pressed his hands to eyes then abruptly passed out. And still shocked by the omission, Starsky had moved quickly, his stomach churning with dread.

Mitchell wasn't really dead, was he? It didn't seem plausible. It didn't seem right that he could have been alive that morning—that they could have had a conversation less than twenty four hours ago—and now he was dead. Mitchell was sick, that was true. Sipping his coffee he had looked tired but not overly so. There was nothing about the memory of him—the image of Mitchell sitting at the kitchen island that Starsky could see so vividly when he closed his eyes—that would lead him to believe that Mitchell had just suddenly died.

Eyes tracking beneath closed eyelids, Hutch had moaned, a deep, raspy sound thick with unconscious exhaustion. Roughly padding down his husband's jeans pockets, Starsky hesitated, eyeing his sleeping form warily as Hutch transitioned into deep, still sleep. He didn't know what he was looking for; he didn't know what he was hoping—or dreading—to find. Carefully pulling the items out of Hutch's pockets, he piled them on the bed, looking for something—anything—to verify or discredit his husband's drunken words. When he was through a pile of ordinary items stared back at him: keys, cellphone, wallet, and loose cash, all seemingly taunting him with their lack of information.

 _You have no idea what he has done. What your love for him has led him to do._ The unsettling statements rattled through Starsky's head in a maddening loop as he ran, the bottom of his sneaker-covered feet pummeling against cracked sidewalk, quickly intermixing with Hutch's ill-time words: _I tried to save him. I really tried to make him better. It worked with you, why couldn't it work with him? You heard voices and then they were gone. I made them go away. She allowed it to work with you. Why didn't she want it to work with him?_

How had Hutch known about the voice? The damaging monologue that had quickly moved into the depths of Starsky's brain after he was rescued from the Marcus Compound. Its taunting presence had come over him suddenly, steadily enveloping him in endless uncertainty and increasing fear. The voice had been the loudest when Hutch disappeared, but it had abruptly vanished the day he had finally returned.

Where had Hutch been and what had he done? How had he known about the charred man? How had he so aptly alluded to the things they discussed and the bunker Starsky refused to enter in his dreams?

Starsky had felt a flicker of jealously when he had tried to gain access to Hutch's iPhone. The charred man was his friend, not Hutch's. Their conversations—his nightmares and dreams—were private. How dare Hutch make unsettling insinuations regarding the only thing Starsky felt he could truly call his own?

 _I know everything about you, all your thoughts, all your dreams, your deepest darkest secrets, and your worst fears. Even the most shameful things you don't want to share with anybody, I know._ Hutch's ominous words came rushing back as Starsky and Lucky stopped briefly at an intersection to wait for the crosswalk light to change. Bending over, he clenched his eyes shut, struggling to ignore the statements as he fought to control his taxed breaths. But the words wouldn't be ignored so easily, nor would Hutch's subsequent statements: _You can't hide anything from me. I wish you could; you have no idea how much I wish you could, but you can't._

Starsky barreled across the intersection as the crosswalk signal changed, trying to frantically put some distance between where he was now and the haunting memories threatening to engulf him into their uncertain depths. Hutch knew nothing about his dreams; he refused to accept improbability of what such a thing would mean—or the deep-seeded terror it would awaken. But the unsettling questions remained.

How could Hutch know any of the things he alluded to? How had he known about the charred man, Starsky's secrets, and his dreams, and what was the price attached to being privy to such things?

Where had Hutch been and what had he done? What kind of horrors had he invited into their lives?

Holding Hutch's phone, Starsky had typed the passcode—the same six digits they had once promised to share, to diligently use on their respective phones and anything that else that required such a thing. –and found it no longer worked on Hutch's device. He tried it two more times before giving up, tossing the phone next to his slumbering husband with a hushed swear. Hutch had changed the passcode, purposefully blocking him from accessing the phone.

Anger building, Starsky had impulsively grabbed Hutch's wallet. Save for his husband's differing initials deeply embossed into the soft, aged leather it was an identical twin of the one Starsky had lost on the Marcus Compound. Blaine had told him that the beloved wallet had been found but not how. It had been confiscated and hidden away in the sealed evidence boxes of the Simon Marcus case, for reasons Starsky was sure he would never know. Bitterly shoving the loose cash into the main pocket of Hutch's wallet, he was taken aback by what he saw: a trio of faded pictures, folded and hidden discreetly. Pulling them out, he unfolded them one-by-one, his brows furrowing as he struggled to comprehend what he was seeing.

Tattered, brutalized and shockingly old, the pictures were strange. Black and white images, faded with eerie clouds of white, each depicting an image of a single man standing sternly in the middle of an empty, barren field. Though the setting of the pictures seemed to be the same, the man in each was different. Judging by hairstyles, facial hair, and their clothes, they appeared to be out of separate decades. Their faces were emotionless but in their eyes there was an all-too-familiar gleam. A sparking hint of something dark—something sinister—that spiked Starsky's apprehension.

He shouldn't have looked at the photographs but Hutch shouldn't have had them hidden away. He shouldn't have had them at all, Starsky thought absently, stacking the first picture behind the third, the second behind the first. Finally, gazing at the third picture he gasped, clutching it tightly in his fingers as the other's fluttered to the floor.

Sweat dripping down his face, Starsky inhaled a deep breath, squeezing his hands into fists as he quickened his stride. Lucky anxiously obliged, tightening the slack on the leash tethering them together as they sprinted down the sidewalk. Feet and paws pounding relentlessly on the cement, their breaths came in tandem puffs as they moved rapidly, struggling to escape the uncertainty of everything they had left behind.

 _It was impossible_ , Starsky thought manically, his chest burning and the muscles in his legs protesting his too-quick stride. There was no way—after everything that had happened—that his Hutch would keep such a thing. There was no comfortable explanation for the existence of the third picture—or any of the strange pictures, for that matter. The images of the first two men were unsettling and odd but the last one was deeply traumatizing.

A different man, from a different decade, stood in the middle of the barren field. The other two men had been strangers but this one Starsky knew all too well. Face expressionless and eyes glistening, Simon Marcus stared back at him, his image forever captured in aged and muted black and white hues. And feeling victimized by the photo's presence—by Hutch's instance to keep it hidden and close—Starsky had impulsively torn it up, allowing the pieces to settle among the other discarded photographs on the hardwood floor. Furiously hoping the telltale fragments would act as a warning if Hutch spontaneously awoke: _I know you had this in your wallet. I'm angry; I don't know where you got it, or why you would have it—why you would dare keep such a thing—but, in time, I will._

Xx

Hutch's truck was gone when Starsky and Lucky returned to Venice Place. Coming upon the back parking lot and finding both parking spaces belonging to their respective vehicles empty, Starsky briefly wondered how his husband had gathered the energy—or the sobriety—to leave their home so soon. But the questions were quickly forgotten as his gaze froze on the locked steel door leading to the basement.

Lucky hesitated, eyeing him warily as Starsky pulled on the leash, prompting the skittish dog to follow him to linger in front of the door. Sweat dripping down his face and back, he extended the index finger of his free hand to caress the steel locks lining it as Lucky whined, a taxed sound echoing both the dog's unease and frustration. The noise went unheeded—and unnoticed—by Starsky, who was too intoxicated by the sudden allure of the basement to think of anything else. There was something attractive about the closed door, yet something innately alarming about the thick locks placed on the outside, seemly, not with the intent of keeping something out, rather of keeping something in.

 _He could turn the locks_ , the tantalizing thought emerged from the depths of his mind, echoing invitingly; _it would be so easy._ If he opened the door and descended into the depths of the basement then he could finally be at peace—he could see what Hutch was doing down there once and for all. Maybe Jack Mitchell was hiding down here, maybe Hutch was as well, or maybe—just maybe—something terrible was waiting for him. Infinite darkness, or perhaps something else—someone else—Simon Marcus or the other two men from the photographs.

Fingers grasping the knob of the top lock, he squeezed it tight, inhaling a deep breath as he felt the coldness of the metal, an odd sensation that spread quick goosebumps across his heated skin. He was oddly infatuated by the questions peacefully circling his mind: What was down there? What would he find if he was courageous enough to unlock the weighted door and descend into the darkness?

Lucky whined again, a high-pitched warning moan that emerged from the bottom of the Dalmatian's chest, as he pulled abrasively on the leash. The movement was enough to sway both Starsky's body and his train of thought as he lurched forward, catching himself from falling face first on the pavement with a quickly extended foot.

" _Fine_ ," Starsky groaned, oddly annoyed—and disappointed—by the dog's nervousness; the word was a little too quick and terse, but he allowed Lucky to pull him around the building. Coming upon the man standing in front of the their front door, Starsky hesitated, but Lucky charged forward, his tail wagging with excitement as he lowered his head and accepted a few welcome pats from their visitor.

"There you are!" Lucas Huntley said, his voice heavy with chastising relief. Crouching to greet Lucky, he peered up at Starsky expectantly. "Do you have any idea what time it is? I've been waiting forever for you! I wouldn't have offered to pick you up if I would have known you were going to make me this damn late."

"Like you have to answer to anybody," Starsky scoffed, the allure of the basement quickly forgotten as he closed the gap between them. "Nobody cares what time you come in."

"You can't be serious with that shit. You think you're under a microscope, try being head of a department." Huntley eyed the iPhone strapped securely to Starsky's arm. "You know, it would have been nice if you would have bothered to answer my calls."

"You didn't call me." Starsky shrugged, reaching for the single apartment key shoved deep into the pocket of the armband.

"Bullshit. Check your missed calls; I called you three times. Don't you start picking up bad habits from that husband of yours, he sets a bad precedence for things like that."

Starsky hit the home button on the bottom of his phone, displaying a trio of missed calls from the man standing next to him. "Sorry," he said, the words sounding far from genuine. "I wasn't ignoring you. I guess, I just didn't hear the ring."

"Ah, it's no big deal." Huntley smiled easily. "It just means you had a good work-out. You must have had a lot of things on your mind, checking out like that. Hopefully the exercise helped lessen the load; I'm assuming you and Hutch had quite the intense talk yesterday. Though, I'm surprised you're the one running the dog. Isn't that more of Hutch's thing?"

"Not anymore." Unlocking the front door, Starsky unhooked Lucky's leash and nodded for Huntley to follow him up the staircase. "He's pretty MIA these days," he said, the statement filling him with unease.

"He's not mad is he?"

"About what?"

"About Blaine. You told him, right? You promised me you would."

Kicking his tennis shoes off, Starsky laughed humorlessly, his eyes following one shoe after another as he moved his legs to fling them across the living room. They hit the wall with a hefty thud, and watching the actions warily Huntley sighed.

"You didn't tell him," he said, a hint of disappointment to his matter-of-fact tone. Planting his hands on his hips, he shook his head. " _God, damn-it_ , Starsky, I told you to tell the truth, so the two of you could work things out instead of... well, whatever the hell it is you're doing now."

"Oh, I told him."

"And?"

"And what? He didn't care; he said he already knew."

 _It wasn't all he knew,_ Starsky thought. Hutch's odd statements and the images of the secret photographs circled his mind in a torturous loop. How had Hutch known those things; how had he obtained the pictures; and why would he dare keep them—in his wallet and on his person, no less? What else was he hiding? What was he doing in Starsky's absence, each time he left the apartment without a word?

" _Seriously_?" Huntley asked. "Why would he not care about that? I mean, he knew about the rumors, sure, but that's way different than knowing the truth. He really didn't care?"

"He really didn't."

"Unbelievable," Huntley groused. "That is completely out of character. I would have thought he would have thrown a fit, kicked you out for the night, or at least demanded you quit working under Blaine."

"That's not what you told me yesterday," Starsky scoffed. "You said that he had secrets too, that he'd _understand_."

"I lied," Huntley said flatly. "I was trying be _supportive;_ I was trying to talk you into disclosing the truth. If I would have told you what I really thought he was going to do then you would have never told him what happened between you and Blaine. But Hutch's truck is gone, now, so maybe he's more upset than you think. Do you have any idea where he would have went?"

"I never know where he goes," Starsky said gruffly, masking the discomfort accompanying the words. He wished he knew where Hutch was; he would give anything to be privy to the places his husband sought when he thought no one was paying attention. "I don't keep track of him. He does what he wants whenever he wants to."

"That's fantastic." Raising his arms, Huntley dropped his weight to sink into the springy couch cushions. "You guys are a mess," he sighed, rubbing his hands over his face in a taxed manner. "Do you even know how off-track you are? Does he? The two of you are acting like complete strangers, keeping secrets from each other, disappearing without telling the other where you are. Do you guys want your marriage to work because I got to tell you, from my perspective, it's not going too well. You're not even six months in and both of you are intent on running in opposite directions when you need to be focusing on closing the gap between each other."

"It isn't going well," Starsky said, the words leaving his mouth by their own accord. He hadn't wanted to say them—he hadn't intended to disclose yet another thing he didn't want to admit to even himself to Huntley. "It's not…" he continued, his voice a near-whisper. "Nothing is like it was before. I don't know how to fix it. Or what to do." _I'm afraid of him,_ the truth emerged from the depths of his heart, echoing in his head as he cringed. _I'm afraid of what he's hiding in that basement; I'm terrified of what he's doing when I'm not around._

"You tell him that?"

"No. We don't… we can't really talk about stuff the way we used to."

"Why?" Huntley asked. The question's glaring simplicity lingered between them as they stared at each other.

 _Because it isn't that easy_ , Starsky thought as he shrugged. Though he wished it was, it wasn't.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Huntley pressed. Leaning forward, he tapped the coffee table and nodded his head, encouraging Starsky to sit on the hard surface in front of him. "Why aren't you talking to each other?" he asked as Starsky complied, placing his palms protectively over his kneecaps.

"I don't know."

"Is it the job?" Huntley probed. "Is going back without him harder than either of you expected? Is that adding to the tension?"

"No—yes—I don't know," Starsky sighed. He didn't want to talk about the conflict in his marriage with Huntley; somehow confiding in his husband's mentor about him seemed incredibly wrong. Underhanded. Deceitful. "Nothing's the same. He's not the same as he was before all this shit with Simon Marcus went down."

"I hate to break to you, but neither are you, pal."

"That's different." Starsky frowned. "My lingering issues are because of the shit I went through. Hutch didn't go through anything! If you talked to him you'd know how weird he's become. He's distant, strange, malicious."

" _Malicious_? Come on, Starsky, are you hearing yourself?" Huntley's eyes widened as he reached out a comforting hand. "Listen to me, okay? I know you've been struggling with things lately. Returning to work has put certain _stresses_ on you. It's triggering for a plethora of reasons. You get tired and confused—"

"I am _not_ confused!"

"Come on, pal. We both know that Hutch doesn't have a mean bone in his body. You know your reactions to people can be a little over the top. I mean, look at what happened yesterday. Blaine was trying to have a conversation with you and you completely melted down."

"I thought you were on my side!"

"This isn't about sides, Starsky. It's about you and your career, your husband and your mental health."

"This isn't all me, Luke!" Starsky spat, pulling from Huntley's touch. "I know I don't always have as much control over myself as I should, but you have no idea how Hutch is now. You have no idea the things he says to me!"

"There is nothing wrong with the way he talks to you, or anybody else," Huntley countered softly. "He's avoidant but he's not nefarious."

"How would you _know_? He doesn't even answer your calls! When's the last time _you_ talked him?"

"Two weeks ago."

"And he really sounded okay to you?"

"I don't know. He sounded a little odd, I guess, but that doesn't mean anything. He isn't the same as he was when the two of you were working under Dobey. Getting fired, it changed him. I worry about him." Huntley tilted his head, his voice softening. "I worry about you too. It isn't good to have this many secrets; it isn't good for the two of you to not be talking to each other the way you once were able to. That day changed a lot of things, but, Starsky, you two aren't the only ones who grieve the loss of Hutch's career. I miss seeing the two of you around, you know, walking the hallways side-by-side like you used to, stopping by my office to shoot-the-shit, and hearing about the remarkable busts you guys were always pulling off. It was a moment in time, and now it's gone, and we're all struggling to come to terms with it. I suppose I feel as responsible as anybody. I know I couldn't have done anything to prevent it, but knowing that doesn't change how I feel about it. That's the price of loving people, right? You hurt when they hurt; you feel the pain of the losses they go through. You feel stung when they push you out because their pain is too great to be fully explained."

"Is that what you think he's doing?" Starsky scoffed, disgusted by the absurdity of the words. Hutch wasn't pushing people away because of grief; he was pulling away because it was easier to keep secrets without an audience.

"Of course he is. The way he acted the day he was fired compared to how disassociated he is now, there isn't a doubt in my mind that his behavior is motivated by guilt and grief."

"I can't believe you're defending him!" Starsky growled.

"And I can't believe you're not!" Huntley countered, his voice low but firm.

Snapping his mouth shut, Starsky huffed a breath through flaring nostrils as he and Huntley stared at each other.

" _Jesus_ , Starsky," Huntley whispered, a moment later, a hint of anguish in his tone. "This is Hutch we're talking about. Your partner; your best friend; your husband; the guy who loves you more than anyone one in whole God-damn world. I shouldn't have to force you to understand how shitty losing his job would have made him feel, or how responsible and guilty he felt after what Simon Marcus did to you, or how devastated he was the day Ryan let him go. Why do you think he disappeared for so long after, huh?"

"I don't know," Starsky whispered sadly. He had no memory of what Hutch had looked like the day he been dismissed, only a fragmented feeling of helplessness from their conversation the night prior. Hutch had promised to take care of things, to take responsibly and fix what had been done. But what had been the horrendous cost of such a thing? They had to go forward because they couldn't go back. But as the charred man had warned, there was no moving forward without seeing or accepting the pain that had brought them to this place. "What was Hutch like the day he was fired?"

"Don't you remember?"

"No… we… we didn't talk that day. He left without saying good-bye."

"He was very worried about you, and what you thought had happened at the Marcus Compound. He was afraid that you blamed him for your assault; he was concerned that you would never be able to stop holding him responsible for what had happened. I know he went into the meeting with Ryan and Dobey unprepared to shield himself against any accusations they may had made. He asked me how he could defend himself if he didn't know what he responsible for. He went into that meeting worried, and he came out… _destroyed_. I tried to talk to him but he left Metro pretty quickly. I guess you know what happened after that."

 _I wish I did_ , Starsky thought. "He left," he said softly. "He didn't come back for weeks."

"Yeah," Huntley whispered guilty. "You know, those were the longest three weeks of my life. Not knowing where he was, where went or if he was okay was terrifying, and I'm sure that doesn't hold a candle to how you felt. I never said I'm sorry for how that day went."

"Why should you be sorry?" Starsky asked. "You didn't make him leave. He chose to go."

"Yeah, but I should been able to say the right thing to make him stay. We talked a little bit about what happened to him when he was kid that day. I tried to tell him he wasn't responsible for what his uncle did or how his father tried to hide it. Though, I don't think he believed me. That poor kid has been living the majority of his life being shamed for something he didn't do. His father made him feel responsible for trauma and events he couldn't have prevented. Hutch was just a child. How the hell was he supposed to stop monster like his uncle?"

"His father was an asshole," Starsky growled. Though he had never met the man he couldn't have hated him more. How different would their lives had been if Richard Hutchinson hadn't instilled an intense sense of shame in his son, if he wouldn't have left Hutch so afraid to tell the truth?

"That's an understatement," Huntley said knowingly, and Starsky looked at him, his face falling with confusion. "He was such matter-of-fact man; he had so many firm ideas of what his son should and shouldn't do."

"Did Hutch tell you that?" Starsky whispered, his chest tightening with jealousy. Huntley shouldn't be privy to anything that he didn't know himself. Hutch was his husband—his best friend—if anyone should know aching details about Hutch's childhood it should have been him.

"No."

"Then how do you know?"

"Because I met him."

"You met Richard Hutchinson?"

"I did."

" _How_?" Starsky breathed. " _When_?"

"It was a long time ago. Not long after I recruited Hutch…" Huntley paused, his eyes sparkling with conflicted wonder. "You know, it was the damnedest thing how Hutch and I met. I didn't even drink coffee back then. I don't know what made me go into that coffee shop, or what made me talk to him. It was like fate, or some unexplained thing, reaching out to me and him, tossing us together for a perfect moment in time. All I know is one second I'm standing in line wondering what the hell I'm doing there and the next I'm recruiting your husband. There was no reason for me to talk to him, no logical explanation for why I reached out to him, but I did."

Starsky frowned, Huntley's statements awakening more of Hutch's odd words: _How was I supposed to predict that nothing would change fate, that nothing could happen any way but how she intended it to?_ Had fate brought Huntley and Hutch together, or had their meeting been purely accidental, a sudden friendship impelled by both parties simply being at the same place at the same time?

"I liked him, so, I recruited him," Huntley continued. "I promised Hutch a spot on my team once he graduated the police academy."

"But that's not all you did. You lied for him too," Starsky accused softly. "You were the one who ensured he slipped through on the background check, that the details of what happened to him were never found or disclosed."

"I did not," Huntley contradicted. "The background check, the psych evaluation, he passed both of those on his own. He didn't need my help, his father's careful planning saw to that. If you ever go back and try to dig for copies of the police reports documenting when Hutch was found as a child, to try to discern what really happened to him, none of that shit cites his real name; and neither the hospital records nor his subsequent extensive psychiatric history are filed under his legal name. His father, though it seemed, was never confident his son could live a normal life ensured he was able to do just that."

"Then how did you find out about what his uncle did? How do you know about any of it?"

"His father came to see me," Huntley said. "It was just after Hutch graduated the academy and he was doing his required stint in a uniform. Richard Hutchinson randomly showed up on my doorstep late one night. I have no idea how he knew who I was or where to find me, but he did."

"He was the one who told you the truth."

"He did," Huntley sighed. "Though, why I'm still not sure. I don't know if he was intent on sabotaging the life Hutch was trying to build on his own, or if he was genuinely afraid of what his son would do. He seemed to be of the opinion that Hutch was capable of more evil than any of us could imagine. He told me that by taking him on, encouraging him embark on a career that he shouldn't be allowed to have, that whatever happened was my responsibility. He told me that he was counting on me, that it was up to me to keep an eye on his son, to make sure he stayed on the straight and narrow, that he conducted himself in a proper way. The words didn't hold much clout with me at the time." Huntley tilted his head. "Still don't, I suppose. The idea that Hutch is capable of something as horrendous as what his uncle did is absolutely ludicrous. The boy has a heart of fucking gold, and his father is a real son-of-a-bitch for never having the courage to see that."

"His mom wasn't much better, either," Starsky said, numbly confiding yet another detail he should have withheld. Did Huntley know about Hutch's mother? Had he had the pleasure of meeting her too?

"I don't know much about his mother," Huntley said somberly. "I'm sure she left some pretty good scars on her son's psyche herself, but Hutch's father, _man_ , his careless words and actions cut his son deep. The day Hutch left, just after he was fired, he said something to me that I haven't been able to get out of my head since. He said that his father was right to treat him the way he had. He said there was darkness inside of him that Marcus had seen right away, that something else had too, and that they wanted it."

Starsky stared at Huntley dumbly, bile rising in the back of his throat as the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He didn't want to talk about this. He didn't want to face the irrefutable truth his lingering dread had been born from—something he had tried so hard to ignore.

Simon Marcus had died in the bunker on the compound but the darkness lived, hiding in dark corners and seeping into those who let it in. Hutch had promised to fix things, to make everything that had gone so horribly wrong right again. He had disappeared and then he had come back, but he hadn't returned alone—the pictures were proof of that, weren't they? Were the things Hutch had easily known—details he _couldn't_ have known—an ominous hint of the horrors to come?

"What do you think?" Starsky croaked finally. "Do you think Hutch has a darkness inside of him?"

Huntley smiled sadly. "Don't we all have something we want to hide?"

Starsky wanted to deny the statement but was powerless to refute such a painful truth.

"You know people probably look at me now and wonder why I took Hutch under my wing, why I kept him so close, and tried so hard to make sure he was given a fair shot to succeed," Huntley continued. "What they don't know is that I know what it feels like to have a father who refuses to see you for you really are. I know what it's like to be rejected from the people who should have been able to love you unconditionally; how hard it is to build a life without them; and what a struggle it is to leave the uncertainty they ingrained in you behind. It's not easy." He smiled, his eyes glistening with sadness. "You're incredibly lucky, you know that, don't you? Hutch aside, look at all the people you have in your life that care about you. Your Aunt and Uncle, Huggy, me, shit, even Blaine. And who does your husband have? After everything that happened, not as many people as you do, I can tell you that for sure. Don't be angry at him for feeling a little lost, Starsky, for pulling away and trying to get his shit together on his own time. He lost so much more than his career; he lost the life he had worked so hard for, and the image of the strong person he thought he really was."

"I know," Starsky whispered, feeling a sudden fierce affinity for the man sitting on his couch. "You'd do anything for Hutch, wouldn't you?"

"Of course."

"Then will you do something for me?"

"Name it."

"I'm going to call Whitley, I need you to drop me wherever he is, and then I need you to call the hospitals, check with the morgues and see if anyone by the name of Jackson Mitchell was reported as deceased yesterday and what his cause of death was."

"Jack Mitchell? Isn't that the name of Hutch's old friend, the guy who is living with the two of you?" Huntley asked, his face contorting with uneasy skepticism. "What makes you think he's dead? Starsky, what the hell is going on here, huh? Hutch is gone and you're a million miles apart from each other. If Jack was dead you would know. There would be thousand things going on right here in this apartment, his family would be contacted and Hutch would be here. You should be talking to him, not asking me to check details on the down-low."

"Just do it, okay? And do me a favor, if you happen to talk to Hutch don't mention Mitchell or what I just asked you to do."

Rising from the coffee table, Starsky felt his anger and frustration ebb. But the sadness remained, quickly transforming into a fierce silent promise _: I don't know what you did, Hutch, or whose secrets you're keeping now that your own have been stripped away from you. I don't know what you're doing when you're alone, but, in time, I will._

TBC


	49. Chapter Forty-Nine

"They were headless!" Whitley said, pacing in front of John Blaine's oversized office desk, he moved his uniform covered arms exaggeratedly.

" _Jesus_." Stifling a grimace, Starsky looked upward and set his gaze on the all-too-familiar ceiling. Perfect lines of recessed tiles stared back at him, sterile and white, illuminated by sporadic rectangular frosted florescent lights. Despite the abrasive lighting, the office was inexplicably dark—it had always seemed so _damn_ dark— and small. Ebony colored, flat, carpet covered the floor, complementing gray walls, offsetting the sheen of various interdepartmental awards and expensive picture frames hung prominently around the room.

" _Beheaded_ ," Whitley continued zealously. "I found the heads first, the bodies were nearly a mile away!"

The plush leather loveseat groaned beneath Starsky's weight as he shifted, swaying the long blinds disguising the rectangular window—a normally overt view of the sixth floor hallway—behind him. His stomach fluttered, his throat burned with bile, as the gruesome images rose from his memory. He could do without his partner's animated summary; he had read the report and reviewed the collection of grisly photographs; he had a perfect image of what the crime scene had looked like when Whitley stumbled upon it days ago.

Three men had been decapitated, their heads abandoned and hidden in a dark alley behind yet another decrepit bar. Carefully impaled by wrought iron fireplace pokers, they were propped up like flags against a dented, foul-smelling garbage can. Their eyes were open, clouded over by death, but their mouths were closed, held shut by a pristine line of woodworking staples. The wounds had bled, leaving their chins encrusted with trails of crimson that intermixed flawlessly with the lines of long-dried blood that had oozed from the long, linear scars carved in their respective cheeks.

The discovery was horrid yet amazing. Blaine had been right: Starsky could hardly believe what had been found; though, his disbelief had more to do with Whitley making the discovery rather than the ghastly corpses themselves.

"I still can't believe it!" Whitley exclaimed. "Talk about a hunch. I swear, Starsky, you really are something else. I will never understand why Dobey ever let a guy like you off his team."

"David's intuition is as solid as they come." Leaning back in his office chair, Blaine tented his hands on the chest and evaluated Starsky carefully.

"It's more than that," Whitley insisted. Shaking his head, he hesitated in the middle of the room, indicating at Starsky with twin fingers. "It's incredible, how he knows where to look every time. He found the first two bodies without _any_ help from _anyone_ —"

"That's not really true," Blaine interjected gruffly. "The first body was the result of a complaint, that poor girl stumbled upon it before he did." Brows furrowing, his gaze froze momentarily on the Henley Starsky had donned that morning. His lips twitched slightly with a hint of a humorous smile, and Starsky could almost hear the silent rebuke—only half-chastising—lingering on the tip of Blaine's tongue: _We're gonna have to talk about your choice in apparel, buddy. Your job title would suggest that a specific uniform is required when you're on the clock._

Starsky had tried to wear the appropriate wardrobe but after emerging from yet another too-cold shower he had found both of his uniforms still missing. It seemed Hutch had forgotten—yet again—to pick the clothing up from whatever dry cleaners had been entrusted to clean them.

Dressing in plain clothes, Starsky had briefly wondered if it had been a conscious over-site on his wayward husband's part. Perhaps, Hutch had purposefully avoided gathering the required uniforms in an effort to keep Starsky away from work—and Blaine—a failed attempt to prevent him from experiencing this very moment, from entering the claustrophobic confines of his superior's dark office, again.

Though once comforting, Blaine's office had become unsettling, quickly transforming from a safe familiar place to one he feared in an instant. Captive to building, uncontainable panic Starsky had allowed Lucas Huntley to usher him away from the dark room, Blaine, and the Metro building. His reaction had been irrational—Starsky knew that now—but his anxiety was as governable as it was reasonable. Fierce and compulsive, there was no avoiding the unsettling behavior his violent fear would lead him to display, or the eventual discomfort accompanying yet another truth realized too late.

Blaine wasn't his enemy; he wasn't someone to be afraid of. There was nothing the man wouldn't do to protect him. But the memories of their distant improprieties were something to be feared. Fed by intense shame and guilt, they had become powerful motivators, leading to destructive behavior executed with the intent of self-preservation.

Starsky could count the number of times he and Hutch had made love in the apartment above The Pits on a single hand, but the times he and John Blaine had done so seemed to be innumerable. The number of times he had told Hutch the truth about where he was going, who he was meeting and why was singular; a poorly detailed, knee-jerk disclosure spat with the intention to wound his drunken husband the night before. But there was no limit to the lies he had told Hutch over the years, or the forced, all-too-casual, explanations of where he had been: _I went to get a beer at Huggy's. I went for a drive. Everything's okay, babe. I just needed to get away, clear my head. You understand, right?_

Starsky hated to admit he was capable of such despicable behavior, or that he could cultivate so many easy lies. The truth was that sometimes, back then, being partnered with Hutch—at work and at home—had just too much. Hutch asked for too much, he expected too much. Guarding his own deep secrets, armed with quick wounding quips and sardonic defensives, occasionally he wasn't a safe place, wasn't a safe person to seek respite in. And there had been times when Starsky had wanted—had needed—to feel safe without having to ask, without having to explain the intensity of the need or the traumatizing events the feeling was born from.

Blaine had never asked, he had never expected him to explain why his presence had been needed.—Dear God, he had actually _needed_ him? Was there a time when he longed to feel Blaine, when he needed his strength to ground him, to hold him in place when he felt as though he was moments from drifting away?

His dependency on Blaine had been Starsky's greatest shame, but even so the secret gave him something. Keeping it contained, he controlled it in a way he couldn't with any other aspect of his life, and in an odd way it made him feel powerful; it made him feel capable and whole. Hutch didn't have to see him at his weakest; he didn't have to see anything Starsky didn't want him to see; he didn't have to know anything Starsky didn't want him to know. And back then—before Simon Marcus and the darkness had entered their lives—he hadn't. But now Hutch appeared to know everything, and worse: he didn't seem to care.

He didn't care about Starsky's mother's illness, the hereditary sickness Doctor Evan's had eventually denied Starsky shared but that Aunt Rosie and Uncle Al still harbored fear that he did; he didn't care about Starsky's indecent behavior with John Blaine; he didn't care about Starsky's job, his nightmares, or lingering fear; he didn't even seem to care about Jack Mitchell's supposed sudden death.

And with all the things that Starsky was sure his husband didn't care about there was another list which itemized the few unsettling things that Hutch seemed to have fierce affinity for. The basement was most the glaring, though the pictures hidden in his wallet were a close second. Hutch didn't carry pictures of anything in his wallet—not of family members, or even Starsky and Lucky—he never had.

"It was a great discovery, Whitley," Blaine said, his voice deep and smooth, his gaze still locked on Starsky. "You should be proud of the way you stomached that scene."

Unnerved by Blaine's persisting silent stare, Starsky turned his attention to his hands and almost groaned. Gripped tightly between his index finger and his thumb of his right hand, he had been absently twisting his wedding ring. The unconscious action was an overt display of trepidation if he ever saw one. A silent tell hinting at the unrest and anxiety hiding just beyond the surface of his forced calm demeanor. He was nervous—he knew that—and judging by the way he was looking at him, Blaine knew it too, as their years together had left him able to read Starsky effortlessly; he was acutely conscious of even the smallest shift in Starsky's mood.

Twisting the ring once more, Starsky wondered if Blaine knew he hadn't wanted to face him.

Did he realize that he wasn't the man he was anxious to see?

After his morning conversation with Lucas Huntley, he had intended to briefly check-in with Whitley before collecting the Camaro from Metro to track down Hutch. He didn't know what he was going to do or say when he found him—Demand detailed information about Jack Mitchell's death, perhaps?—all he knew is that he needed to.

Meeting Whitley a few blocks away from Metro, Starsky's plans had suddenly shifted. His partner had no intension of letting him slip away without getting a proper update on what had happened during his absence, or before accompanying him to a meeting Blaine had demanded they both attend.

"Yeah, well, you know I didn't find that scene on my own." Whitley grinned, nodding at Starsky. "But I have to admit when you texted me to check up on that alley I thought you were crazy."

Starsky's stomach lurched as he frowned at his partner. " _What_?"

"You texted me the night I found the bodies." Whitley grinned.

"No, I didn't," Starsky said uneasily.

"Yes, you did," Whitley insisted. Exuberance wearing thin, he looked at Starsky oddly, as though waiting for him to advise him of joke's punchline. "It was nearly three days after you found the burned body. I remember because it was really odd. I didn't hear from you for days, and then you texted me at four in the morning."

"I didn't do it," Starsky breathed. He couldn't have texted Whitley—the notion was laughable. After his meltdown at Rosie and Al's Hutch had taken him home and captive to confusion and dread, nightmares and anxiety, he hadn't been aware or conscious enough to do such a thing.

"You were really upset after finding the burned man; Hutch took you home, remember?" Whitley prompted. "You were MIA for the next two days. I texted you ton of times to check in, but you didn't respond. And, then, out of nowhere, in the early hours of the third day, you texted _me_ and said I should go check out that alley."

"You didn't text me," Starsky whispered, his breath feeling cold in his chest. "And I didn't text you." There was no way what Whitley was saying was true; he had no memory of texting his partner, of reading or receiving messages that would have automatically been saved for later reference. He hadn't sent or received a thing—he hadn't even had his phone.

"You did," Whitley repeated, his tone softening. "Look, man, I have the message, I can show it to you if you really don't believe me."

"That's enough," Blaine grunted. "It doesn't matter who texted who, all that matters is what was found. There are rumored to be six missing men together, six missing felons. It seems you boys have found five of them. It's hush-hush, but Dobey's team has officially taken the cases. Ryan hasn't announced anything to the public and don't think he will, but it is beginning to look like Bay City has serial killer."

"Someone's killing felons," Starsky whispered, slightly unnerved by Blaine's veiled eyes. His expression was guarded, his tone almost too even. There was no hint of Whitley's curiosity or excitement in their superior's demeanor.

"It can't be the work of one man," Whitley contradicted. "The MO's are all so different. One guy was cut up, the other was burned, and these two were decapitated. Man, that scene was ugly too; none of those guys had their heads removed with a clean cut. I talked to pathology, they told me that the evidence suggests that all the men were still alive when their heads were chopped off. Whoever killed them didn't have a weak stomach, that's for sure."

Blaine nodded at Starsky. "Why don't you dust off your old Zebra stripes and explain to your still green partner how the homicides could still be the work of the same perp?" he said sternly.

Starsky didn't want to but did anyway. He was surprised by how easily the information came back to him, how smoothly the details suddenly seemed to fit together. Of course there was only one killer, it was the only thing that could possibly make sense. "The places they were found and where they disappeared are connection enough. All bars, right? They went missing behind the same seedy establishment…" he paused and snapped his fingers, the hopeful movement meant to jog the fragmented memory of the name of bar. It didn't work, and he shook his head in frustration. "I don't remember the name," he admitted and Blaine's brows furrowed. "But it's just like Callie Baker's been saying: someone has a grudge, and Bay City PD, the city as whole, hasn't been paying attention because nobody cares about a missing felon. Smart choice if you're looking for a victim, I suppose. They'd be just about be the easiest group to target. I mean, if they're reported missing who's going to look for them? PD is going to spend the minimum time possible on the missing person's report and investigation, and Ryan'll sweep it under the rug. Shit, that's what he did with all reported missing felons up until this point. The only reason the Zebras are taking over is because the bodies are turning up and they can't ignore it anymore."

"But come on, man, a serial killer?" Whitley scoffed. "That sounds a little over the top, a little too much like TV, like the ridiculous plot of a cop melodrama."

"Don't be so quick to dismiss the details in front of your eyes," Blaine said. "The homicides are brutal; they would suggest that the killer has a grudge. They did something to them, or someone else this person cares about. Although they don't seem to be linked on a personal level, don't forget that the all the missing men served time for after being convicted of the same disgusting crimes."

"But if it's the same perp, if it's a serial killer, then why kill the felons so differently?" Whitley asked. "Don't these types of killers usually want to claim some notoriety for what they've been doing? Wouldn't they be leaving some kind of universal clue, some kind of mark to claim the victims as their own?"

"They are," Blaine said flatly, his guarded gaze frozen on short beard covering Starsky's scared cheek.

"Not necessarily," Starsky said matter-of-factly. Ignoring Blaine's statement, he looked at Whitley. "It's likely they want to throw us off. The differences in MO's are meant to make us question what we know, if anything, for sure."

"What do we know for sure?" Blaine asked.

Whitley and Starsky looked at each other. Dull blue eyes holding vivid green, Starsky's contentious frown prompted Whitley to answer. "We know their names," he said. "Matthew Avery was the first felon, uh, _victim_ , to be discovered. The second…" he paused, glancing apprehensively at Blaine, as though asking for permission to continue.

"Go ahead." Blaine assured curtly. "It's fine; you can tell him."

"Tell me what?" Starsky asked.

"Well," Whitley sighed. "The second guy you found, the burned body, the dental records came back with a positive ID. He's one of the missing felons too." He looked at Blaine, his uneasy expression begging for assistance.

"Jesus, Whitley," Blaine barked. "Just spit it out already! You're making this way harder than it has to be."

"Stark," Whitley blurted. "The guy's name is Cameron Stark."

Mouth hanging open, the air left Starsky's chest in a muted gasp. But it wasn't the name that bothered him, rather something else. How could the charred man be a felon? How could he feel such strong affinity and friendship for a man whose _crimes_ would lead him to have been slain in such a horrible, excruciating way?

"That doesn't…" he whispered hoarsely. He should have known the charred man was a felon. Given the conversation, he should have comprehended such a glaring detail before being told in such a direct way. But he hadn't, and somehow he couldn't bring himself to believe the truth now. "That's impossible. You… you made a mistake. You're wrong about this man!" He wanted to stop speaking, to keep the irrational words from leaving his mouth, but he was powerless to stop them, and helpless to keep the hysteria from his voice. "You have to be wrong about _him_. John you don't... you don't understand... this _can't_ be true!"

Leaning forward, he inhaled a thick, shaky breath. He felt gutted by the words—devastated by a horrible realization he wanted nothing more than to deny. With all the things the charred man had known—all the unpleasantness he seemed intent on making Starsky consider—why wouldn't he have told the truth about who he was? Why wouldn't he have shared what _he_ had done?

Watching Starsky carefully, Blaine nodded at doorway. "Whitley, hit the road," he ordered curtly.

Whitley's face contorted with discontent. "Why do I have to leave?" he demanded, looking helplessly between Blaine's fierce stare and Starsky's devastated eyes.

"Because I said so," Blaine growled. "Go. Now."

"He's my partner, you know," Whitley said, staring at Starsky a beat longer, seemingly waiting for him to come his aide—searching for an indication that whatever confusion had overcome him would be easily forgotten, quickly erased, instead of absorbed. "Whatever concerns him affects me too. I have rights, and so does he."

"I'm only going to tell you one more time!" Blaine threatened, pointing a stubborn index finger at the door.

"I don't understand it," Whitley seethed. "Why does everything have to be a big-fucking-secret when it comes to him? Everyone knows he has issues. Why can't the two of you just admit it, instead of trying so hard to cover it up! So, he's a little off, he's here isn't he? And I'm here, too! I'm his fucking partner, Blaine!"

"I'm your superior and I told you to leave!" Rising from his chair, Blaine towered over the desk and looked at Whitley with fire in his eyes. "Get out."

"I have every right to be here," Whitley maintained, lowering his voice to a near whisper as he walked backwards toward the door. "I have every right to be privy to this conversation. Maybe more than you do, considering what Dobey said."

"Close the door behind you." Blaine stared at Whitley until the command was eventually obeyed and the door was pulled shut with much more force than necessary. "That fucking kid," he groaned, sinking back into his chair. "I should write him up for noncompliance. What a little shit; I can't believe he thinks he can talk to me like that."

"You like it," Starsky whispered numbly. "You always were a fan of the fiery ones. They keep you on your toes, make life a little more exciting. He really didn't have to leave, you know? You heard what he said, everyone already thinks I'm nuts."

"Yeah, well, that doesn't mean you aren't entitled to a little privacy. The detail about that guy, it shook you, and you don't need an audience for what comes next."

"Whitley's already seen me at my worst." Starsky's chest tightened with bitter anger as shameful memories rose to the forefront of his mind, colliding with the irrefutable rumors echoing through Metro's thin walls. No one believed he should be here; no one thought he was stable enough to carry a gun and badge, but it wasn't until this moment that he wondered if they were right. "Like he said: I'm not really known for keeping my shit together anymore. He heard me scream and cry in two separate alleys on two separate days."

"You didn't cry in the second one. I remember because, at the time, you were very intent on ensuring I was aware of that detail." Clasping his hands on the desk, Blaine regarded him worriedly. "Why do you care who that burned man was, David?"

"I don't."

"You do. Why does it matter to you if he was another felon or not. Who is he to you? Why are you so attached to him?"

"I'm not."

"You are," Blaine said knowingly. Pursing his lips, he looked at his desk and shook his head as long silent moments passed. "You know if you're not okay, you can tell me, right? If there's a problem, if you're struggling with the job or anything else, you can always come to me for help. I'm always here for you, you know that."

"Thank you, Uncle Al," Starsky retorted quickly. Blaine's expression was unnerving. His forced even tone was gentle—too gentle—and dread gathering in the pit of his stomach, Starsky couldn't help feeling that something was terribly wrong. Why did Blaine make Whitley leave? And why was he being so careful now? "Don't try to act like my father, John. Given everything we've shared, it's not a good look for you."

"Okay," Blaine agreed, conceding too easily. "You don't want me to treat you with kid gloves, I get it. But you need to stop acting like I need to. What happened yesterday? You wouldn't come into the office and you left in a hurry."

"I was confused."

"And now you're not? That was quite a scene you caused. We're lucky Huntley was the only one who caught it."

"Are we?"

"David, don't do yourself a disservice and ask questions we both know you already know the answers to. I know you've heard the rumors circulating the hallways about you and me, the last thing we need to be doing is giving somebody something to latch on to. We called it quits years ago, but Ryan isn't going to care about that. What happened back then can still come back and hurt us, _both_ of us."

"I know that."

"Then why did you act the way you did? And why did you leave with Huntley, of all people? What the hell could the two of you possibly have to talk about?"

"Don't ask questions we both know I'm not going answer," Starsky whispered. He didn't have the courage to admit he had told Huntley the truth, or the strength to endure Blaine's disappointment over such a disclosure. Blaine didn't trust Huntley, and Huntley didn't trust Blaine. Their relationship had been taxed from the start, strained by incompatible personalities, fractured by past friendly competitions that had gone irrevocably wrong. Starsky didn't have the nerve to tell Blaine he had confirmed everyone's suspicions, that he had absently given Huntley the upper hand in the strange tug-of-war they had been engaging in for years. "That conversation was private."

"I'm sure it was," Blaine said grimly. "What the hell is going on here, David? What's happening to you? One second you're fine and next you're not. You send cryptic text messages to Whitley in the middle of the night and then claim not to remember the information you disclosed."

"I didn't send that text, John."

"Don't lie to me, buddy. I saw it myself. You sent Whitley directly to the bodies of those three men."

"I didn't," Starsky insisted uneasily. If he didn't send the text—if he hadn't had access to his phone—that left only one other person who did: Hutch. But he couldn't tell Blaine that; he hated Hutch enough as it was, and Starsky wouldn't dare awaken more suspicion surrounding his husband's actions. He didn't want to think about how Hutch had known that the bodies were in that alley, or why he had sent Whitley to find them.

"I don't know how you would have been able to send Whitley to that alley without already knowing the bodies were there, and I don't know why you would have sent somebody to the scene if you did. You've been struggling to keep it together lately. Your absences are glaring; your mental decline since discovering Matthew Avery's body is worrisome to say the least. Your behavior is alarming. You seem to have no control over your actions or reactions, and even more startling, you seem to have no awareness, no memories, of your irrational behavior after it's passed."

"Why am I here, John?" Starsky asked, his tone slightly bitter. He felt like a chastised child; they didn't need to be talking about this. Why couldn't Blaine dismiss his behavior as he had done so many times before?

"You're struggling, I was hoping you would feel comfortable enough to tell me why."

"You're joking. I can't share anything with you. I'm your officer, you're my superior, if I say something incriminating, if I admit anything to you and you think I can't handle my job then this will all be over for me. One signature, John," Starsky whispered, repeating the ever looming threat Doctor Lupton had uttered weeks ago. "One little check mark, that's all it'll take to put an end to my time here. And that'll be the end of my career. I really will be damaged goods; I won't be able to come back, _ever_. I'm sure you understand why I can't I share anything with you." There was a bitterness to his voice now, a biting sharpness increasing with each word he spoke. "You're the one who brought me back here, the only person who thought I deserved a chance, and now you're asking that I share information that you can use against me."

"Are you worried about disclosing something that can be used against you?"

"No."

"Then look me in the eye and tell me you're okay. _Please_ , David, trust me enough to tell the truth."

"I'm fine," Starsky lied.

"Of course you are," Blaine said tiredly. "You have to be, right? You just said it yourself: no matter how you really feel you have to make sure you're acting normal, so that you don't lose what little you have left. But you're not okay, anybody with eyes can see that. You've been through some very intense stuff. That shit at the Marcus Compound, it changed you, in ways I'm not sure you're even aware of. I was wrong not to see that when I brought you back. It was too soon, everyone kept telling me that. Ryan; Dobey; hell, even your Uncle Al. But I didn't want to see it. I didn't want to believe you were incapable of being who you once were."

"What are you saying, John?"

"All of this is my fault. It was my mistake to put you in situation everyone told me you would never be able to handle. You've always been walking a thin line, buddy, and it's about to get a hell-of-a-lot thinner..."

"What are you talking about?"

"... I asked Whitley to leave as a professional courtesy, he doesn't need to be privy to the things you say or chose not to during the duration of our conversation."

"What is this?" Starsky pressed nervously. Palms sweating as the clenched his kneecaps, his heart pounded in his chest as he struggle to comprehend the seriousness of his superior's words and the oddness of the conversation.

"I'm going to ask you one more time. I'm giving you one final chance to tell me how it is before I put all it all on the line. Is there anything you want to tell me?"

"No."

"Okay." Leaning back in his chair, Blaine looked disappointed—grief-stricken—as he rubbed his hand over his chin. "Okay," he repeated, forcing an authoritative tone. "Something is going on with these homicides, David. A pattern is starting to emerge, and I don't want to see it, buddy, I swear to God I don't. My loyalty to you is infinite but I have to act within the confines of my career. The name isn't the only odd thing about that burned up body. Pathology confirmed that he did have a scar on his cheek, exactly like yours. The strange thing is that nobody could have seen it; the burns to his face were too severe to allow the naked eye to decipher facial characteristics let alone anything else." Flattening his palms on the top of the table, he assessed Starsky seriously. "When I joined you at that crime scene do remember what you said to me?"

Fingers rubbing absently over the scar on his own cheek, Starsky shook his head. That was nearly a week ago, how could he be expected to recall such a thing? "No."

"You said he had a scar, that he didn't like people touching it. David, how did you know he had a scar?"

"I didn't."

"You did."

"I couldn't have," Starsky denied. The words were a lie; he had known about the charred man's scar, but he couldn't explain how he had known any more than he could justify his affinity for the man. It just was. "Are you accusing me of something?" he asked uneasily.

"No," Blaine said, though his taxed expression negated the word.

Starsky felt a rush of terror and grief as he was overcome by another irrefutable truth. He wasn't afraid of this office or Blaine; he was afraid of himself and the things he used to do—the choices he used to make when his life felt unbalanced. The charred man was right: he was drawn to Blaine's strength. He always had been and always would be. Blaine's certainty had consumed him years ago, and panic clenching his chest, Starsky wondered if it would do the same now. Though their years together had left Blaine able to read Starsky effortlessly, they had allowed Starsky the ability to the do same. And what Starsky saw in his superior's eyes was devastating.

"What are you doing, John?" Starsky pressed.

"I'm pulling you from the squad car."

"You're _suspending_ me?"

"No, not officially. But I want you as far away from these cases as possible. The less anyone knows about these details the better. We need to put some space between you and these crime scenes. Dobey's team is going to start looking very closely at the homicides and even you can't deny how certain correlations could began to look incriminating. The rumors surrounding your instability are rampant. You discovered the first two bodies and you led Whitley to the other three. David, for all intents and purposes you found every one of those bodies, and every one of those men shares your very distinct scar, a universal serial marking if I've ever seen one. Given what happened to you, Ryan's hesitance to allow you to return, and your ongoing struggle with mental illness I'm worried that—"

"You think I did this," Starsky whispered dreadfully. "You think I killed those men."

"I don't want to think anything. And I don't want Dobey's men to think anything, either, or link you to these crimes. David, people are falsely accused of things all the time."

"Like how you accused Hutch of being responsible for what happened to me?" Starsky spat, giving a voice to the old accusation that never seemed to fade with time. Even amongst all his confusion—his irrational behavior, nightmares, and lingering dread—there so many things he didn't remember, but one thing he did. Blaine's interest, his inane determination to prove Hutch was responsible for his abduction and captivity, had led him to uncover truths better left alone. He was the one who destroyed Hutch's career; he had made it impossible for things to ever be the way they once were.

How different would things have been if Blaine wouldn't have pushed Ryan and Dobey to dismiss Hutch? How different would their lives be if Blaine had left Hutch's past alone? Would Hutch still have felt the need the leave, or would he have had the courage to stay?

"You know, John, you seem to be doing an awful lot of accusing," Starsky continued. "Maybe you're the one killing these men! Maybe you're the one who took me to the Marcus Compound! Maybe you're the one who left me there to die in the darkness!"

"I was trying to protect you," Blaine said, his voice quiet but taxed. "After what happened, I pursued Hutch because it was the right thing to do. He lied about his past and he did you wrong. I don't know if he meant to, what his intentions were when he got mixed up with Simon Marcus, or even if he really had any. But intentions or not, the results were the same. You got hurt. And those events, they changed you, buddy, I'm sorry for not realizing that before. I'm sorry things went the way they did. But I will _never_ apologize for trying to keep you safe, and I will never stop trying to protect you when I can. There is a price to keeping secrets, and a crippling weight that you carry when trying to keep them contained. Hutch made his own choices, he concocted his own reality, and he lied about the horrific events that shaped him the most."

"How the _fuck_ do you know what shaped him? How do you know anything about who he really is?"

"People don't just walk away from that kind of trauma, David. It defines them, changes them deep inside, makes them do things that the rest of us don't understand." Brows furrowing sadly, Blaine's face contorted with deep lines of regret. "Doesn't it?" he added thickly, his voice nearly inaudible.

Starsky scoffed as Blaine's words hit a nerve deep inside him. He felt overcome by helplessness and fear as he realized that it didn't matter what he said—how loud he screamed, how vehemently he denied rumors and veiled accusations— it wouldn't change what it all looked like now. If his irrational behavior didn't incriminate him, then his nonsensical knowledge about the bodies and their locations did. And the scars—oh, Jesus, _the scars_ —his scar and theirs. The deep wounds marring the bodies of the dead men, duplicate linear lacerations that promised never to disappear.

 _Who do you belong to?_ Starsky gasped as the unnerving question emerged from the depths of his mind. _Why does he want you? Why is he still holding on you?_

His own scar an ugly thing, a glaring reminder of the past he wanted so desperately to ignore. But was it possible it could also be something else? A permanent disfigurement, a ritualistic declaration of someone's ownership.

"Go home and sit tight," Blaine urged. "Don't talk about bodies you shouldn't have been able to locate or scars you shouldn't have been able to see. Don't talk about anything you shouldn't know. And for fuck sake, David, if you stumble across another body, if you find yourself in another alley with no knowledge of how you got there, then you leave as fast as you can. You _run_ the other way."

Starsky didn't know if he could abide by the command, and he was unsure if he could summon the courage to return to home. But he was certain that if he followed Blaine's advice—if he continued running—he would never be able to understand who or what he was struggling to escape, and why it was so intent on never letting him go.

TBC

Author Note: I don't say this often enough, but thanks for the reviews. You're all terrific. :D


	50. Chapter Fifty

" _God-damn_ it!" Starsky screamed, pounding his fists on the Camaro's steering wheel. The horn screeched in protest, filling Metro's packed parking garage with an abrasive, echoing beep that only served to intensify his apprehensive anger. Breathing heavily, he wiped his sweaty palms on the thighs of his jeans and gripped the steering wheel tightly. "What the _fuck_ is going on?"

His iPhone vibrated in the front pocket of his jeans, sending an unsettling jolt down his already shaking leg. He made no effort to answer or ignore the incoming call. He was too shocked to do such a thing, too shaken to contend with whoever was reaching out to him in this moment in time. Pressing the back of head against the tall, black bucket seat, he groaned deeply, his desperate confusion overwhelming him.

This wasn't happening, how could any of this be happening to him?

How could Blaine have pulled him from the squad car? How could he justify doing such a thing? How could Blaine, of all people, possibly think that he was capable of the committing such hideous and violent crimes?

The text message Whitley had received—the tip that had led him to the last three corpses—was damning, but alone it wasn't enough to declare guilt. It wasn't enough to justify sending him home, directing him to sit indefinitely on the sidelines until Dobey's team decided if he was or wasn't a viable suspect.

 _People are falsely accused of things all the time_. Blaine's haunting words echoed through Starsky's mind, leaving him cold with fear. He knew he hadn't sent the text message, but there were other things he had done. The message coupled with his discovery of the other two bodies and his sporadic behavior were enough to suggest culpability. Any detective would be remiss to ignore the cluster of glaring evidence linking him to the corpses, or the conclusion Blaine was certain Dobey's team would quickly deduce.

"I didn't do this," Starsky whispered, cringing at the note of uncertainty in his tone as he nervously scratched his scar.

He didn't kill those men. He couldn't have—he wouldn't have—he wasn't capable of it. There was no logical reason for him to target felons. He hadn't know them in life, and aside from the charred man, he didn't care what had happened to any of the men—who they had been or what they had done when they were alive. He didn't understand why things were unfolding the way they were. He didn't know why any of the deceased felons had been targeted; he didn't understand why the evidence was so incriminating; and he didn't want to consider how he could have become an unwilling participant in any of the homicides.

"I didn't do this," Starsky said quietly, desperately hoping the statement would ease the dread threatening to engulf him, that it would awaken his courage once again and leave him feeling strong enough to return home—or at least answer his phone. "I didn't do this," he repeated firmly, and for a brief second he felt better—comforted by the certain truth. He hadn't done anything wrong, he knew that, and it would only be a matter of time before everyone else figured it out, too. But he faltered when trying to extend his certainty beyond his own behavior.

Hutch may have been accountable for his abduction and captivity at the Marcus Compound but that was years ago and the topic of his liability in the matter should have been long obsolete, now. He had taken responsibly for his actions; he had owned up to lying and accepted the consequences in stride—or so it seemed—yet, it wasn't the only thing he had done.

Hutch had left and then he had come back, but the man who had returned was distant and strange, detached and unfamiliar. He knew things he shouldn't have known, had things he shouldn't have had, and was uncharacteristically apathetic in face of things that demanded a reaction.

Refusing to be silenced, Starsky's doubts crippled him in the face of everything he didn't know.

Had something returned with Hutch?

Or had something taken his place?

Or was Huntley right, after all?

Was Hutch's swift change in demeanor symptomatic of guilt and grief? Grappling to hold on to something after losing his career—and the brave self-image he had struggled to cultivate— had he decided to let everything go, instead?

"I don't want to think about this," Starsky whispered, shaking his head as the quiet words were quickly absorbed by the interior of the empty car. "I don't want to waste time agonizing over things I don't have the power to change."

 _Not wanting to face the truth doesn't make it nonexistent._ He closed his eyes as the memory of the charred man's words filled his ears. _When faced with the pain of the past you do everything you can to look away._

"But there's no point to dwelling on any of it now," Starsky said helplessly.

 _You must go forward because you cannot go back. But you cannot fully understand how to stop the darkness, how to stop him, if you do not tell the truth. If you do not allow yourself to see and accept the pain that brought you here._

"I already told the truth. I already disclosed the only thing I thought I had left to hide. I told Hutch about Blaine, he didn't care."

 _He could have illuminated a torch in the darkness but he chose extinguish it instead._

"I don't know why he says what he does. I don't know why he would act the way he has been," Starsky whispered shakily, the words renewing his doubt. What had facilitated the changes in Hutch's personality? Why was he so different than he had been before?

 _He has so much to share with you, but you remain unwilling to listen. You remain obstinately resistant to burdening the weight of what he has done, what your love for him has influenced him to do._

"I didn't tell him to do anything."

 _You asked him to be strong when he was so weak. You asked him to burden your anger and pain when he couldn't began to contend with his own. You can't run from this; there's no going back now that you've begun._

"I didn't begin. I didn't chose this. I didn't want any of this."

 _He chose for both of you._

Phone vibrating wildly in his pocket once more, Starsky stared forlornly at the shadows hiding in-between the parked cars in the parking garage. He didn't want to mentally regurgitate things the charred man had said; he didn't want to be trapped in this moment, unable to find the courage to move as he engaged in a conversation with himself. He didn't want to talk to the charred man, not after the meeting he'd just had, not after denying the truth about the dead man's past—something he should have silently accepted, something he was sure he already knew. Of course the charred man was felon. How could he have been anything else? "I don't want to look back. I'm terrified of what I'll see. And I shouldn't be talking to you, anyway. You're a felon and I'm a cop; we're on completely separate sides."

 _People will think that you and are different, but we are the same._

"We're not the same," Starsky whispered. His phone vibrated again, alerting him of another call, and he pressed the silence button through the material of his jeans. He wasn't ready to face the inevitable fallout of Blaine's swift decision. He didn't know if he could gather the energy to talk to Hutch or Huntley, Whitley or Blaine, or anyone else whose incessant bid for contact would force him to feign courage he didn't feel. He didn't want to talk to anyone. But leaning his head on the driver's side window, he was unable to keep himself from responding to the memories of the charred man's previous words—of recounting conversations they had already had in his dreams. "We can't be."

 _You're a marked man. Just like I was. Just like all the men before us and the ones that will come after._

"I can't be like you. Or the others. They were criminals and you were, too. I knew that, didn't I? I'm sure I did because we talked about it. The first time we spoke, we discussed what had happened to you. How could I forget something I had known so fervently in my dreams? People don't light other people on fire just because. It's personal. Whoever killed you wanted you to suffer, they wanted you to pay dearly for what you had done, and they wanted you to be found."

 _The time you spent captive to Simon Marcus and the darkness shaped you. It changed everything, just as fate intended it to. Your interpretations can be flawed; sometimes, in the midst of your confusion, you don't know what the truth is._

"But I wasn't confused in Blaine's office, not this time. I was fine when I went in there. It wasn't a great morning, but it was better. I was solid; I knew what I needed to do and no one was going to stop me from doing it. I felt so different than I do now. It doesn't matter, anyway. I don't want to talk about this anymore."

 _Not thinking about it doesn't change what's been done. Avoiding the past gives it power. It makes it easy for fate to exploit you. Who do you belong to?_

"I don't know."

 _That is a lie. You know it, and I know it, too. The mark on your cheek is proof of the truth that will come out, eventually. It always does. And what will you do then? What will you have left to hold onto once everything you know is gone, and you're forced to finally accept the truth of what your husband has become?_

"I don't want to," Starsky admitted.

He didn't want to see the hints of the darkness that had become embedded into his life. He didn't want to focus on his ceaseless dread. He didn't want to consider the strangeness of Hutch's behavior or admit how unpredictable his own had become. He didn't want dwell on the past; he didn't want to consider the traumatizing events that had led him to lose control over his mental faculties before, for fear that he would be powerless to prevent it from happening again. Each hospital visit—each stay in a psychiatric unit, each time he was confined to the claustrophobic confines of an all-too-familiar white room—had been facilitated by the same reoccurring revelation.

"I don't know what to do," Starsky added quietly. "I don't want to know what I know, and I don't know if I can—"

Gasping, he jumped, his sentence abruptly interrupted by a firm, abrasive knocking on his driver's side window. Turning his head, he stared wide-eyed at the blonde woman next to his Camaro.

"Oh, _shit_ ," he breathed, the terse words leaving his chest in a taxed exhale.

Tall and slim, Callie Baker had to bend over, planting her hands on her thighs, in order to hold Starsky's blue eyes with her own. There wasn't a hint of her sweet girl next door public-assess-persona as she stood outside his vehicle, looking at him expectantly. Spaghetti tank top clinging to her oversized bosom, the legs of her tight shorts ending slightly below what they were meant to conceal, Baker looked more like a woman of a scandalous illegal profession than a freelance reporter. "Who are you talking to?" she asked lightly, the question muffled by the thick glass separating them from each other.

" _No_ ," Starsky grumbled uneasily. Shifting his gaze out the windshield, he blinked furiously, desperately hoping that the image of Baker was imaginary. Now wasn't the time to be carefully dancing around her probing inquiries. Dry panic building in the base of his throat, he worried he was drastically unprepared to feign the annoyance required to prevent him from engaging in a yet another condemning conversation.

"What was that?" Baker asked. "I can't hear you through the glass."

Briefly, Starsky considered backing out of the parking space and leaving without a word, but he struggled to understand what the action would accomplish. If he didn't talk to her now, Baker would only turn up later, on a worse day in a worse moment. Avoiding her hadn't deterred her interest in him; it hadn't prevented her from pursing him or the information she was determined to unearth. He could either run from his moment or face it, and with Blaine's insistent direction swirling in his mind, twisting his stomach into knots, Starsky quickly realized he was done running away.

Inhaling a deep breath, he swiftly unrolled the window. "What do you want?" he asked, feigning irritation.

"Where you talking to _yourself_?" Baker's lips curled into a satisfied smile. "Better be careful with that, given your questionable mental history, doing that in front of the wrong person could make things very complicated for you."

"I wasn't talking to myself," Starsky grumbled, his dislike for Baker renewed as she chuckled at his response. She was young and beautiful but arrogant. Any advantages her looks afforded her were quickly retracted once her pushy, off-putting nature was revealed. And her true nature had been revealed to him nearly a year ago, when she first started hounding him for a detailed account of what had actually happened during his time at the Marcus Compound. "And what the hell do you know about my history, or anything else?"

"I know more about you than you could ever imagine," Baker teased.

"Yeah, right. What are you doing sneaking around the parking garage? How'd you manage to get in here, anyway? You don't have clearance; how'd you'd get past the parking attendant's booth?"

"I have my ways."

"I'm sure," Starsky scoffed. "You didn't do anything racy, did you? Like, barter with your body in exchange for being able to pursue this riveting conversation?"

"How else was I supposed to be allowed to finally talk to you?" Baker winked conspiringly. "David Starsky, you are a very hard man to track down."

"Only for some people."

"Are you avoiding me, detective?"

"No. Though, by the sounds of it, you don't know as much about me as you think you do. You better check your facts, Callie; I'm not a detective anymore and that's old news."

"My fact checker is the best in the biz," Baker said sweetly. Gripping the Camaro's windowsill, she tilted her head. "Mike—that's what he told me to call him— _Mike_ , is nothing more than a silhouette on a computer screen, but his information is spectacular. You ought to hook yourself up with a man like him. He'll give you whatever you want whenever you want it…"

"I'm sure."

"… as long as you're willing to pay his prices. But enough about him, let's talk about you. Who you used to be and who you are now. You know, titles don't really mean that much to me," she said, smoothing the tip of her finger on the windowsill flirtatiously. "You'll always be a detective to me."

Starsky groaned. Forcefully, unclenching her hands from the side of his beloved car, he waived her away from the vehicle. "What's your deal, Callie?"

"Me? I don't have a deal. You, on the other hand, are a very big deal, or at least you were. I will never forget the first time I saw your picture in the newspaper. You know, black and white coverage doesn't really do you justice. It doesn't capture your striking complexion, or the vividness of your beautiful blue eyes." Baker nodded in approval. "The facial hair is a very nice addition, that's new since the last time our paths crossed."

"Since the last time you cornered me, you mean. Better be careful, with all this talk about eyes and facial hair, I might just start to think you have a crush on me."

"Who says I don't? That beard is very striking on you."

"Well, in that case, I'm a little too old and little too taken for you."

"You're right about that," Baker sighed, her face falling with mock disappointment. "I certainly can't contend with the ring on your finger. But what is age anyway?"

"I don't know," Starsky countered easily. The flirtatious banter felt good. The coy, causal tug-of-war for the verbal upper-hand was a welcome distraction from the uncertain anxiety that had threatened to engulf him only minutes before, and he was all-too-anxious to give into quick diplomatic assumptions and ignore his lingering doubts about the woman in front of him. Baker was harmless; her interest in him was nothing more than the culmination of a lingering college-age crush. "Why don't you tell me how old you are and I'll tell you how much older I am."

"How about I don't," Baker said shrewdly. "How about I finish my story, instead? As I was saying, I will never forget the first time I saw your picture in the newspaper—I was only a junior at USC at the time, but you never forget something as powerful as that. The photographer had caught you and Hutch as you were trying to slip away from the Metro building. You looked numb. Shell-shocked and overwhelmed. You were wearing dark sunglasses, but, I swear, you were crying. Even printed in black and white I could see the sheen of fresh tear tracks glistening on your cheeks."

"You have a very _active_ imagination," Starsky scoffed, though he was unnerved by her words. Where was she going with this? Out of all the occasions—all the high-profile cases he and Hutch had worked that demanded news coverage—why was she so eagerly referencing _this_ one?

He hadn't been crying the moment the photograph had been taken, though he remembered wanting to—not because of the case, but because of what had happened moments before he and Hutch exited the building. He had been so tired—so utterly exhausted—that he had barely had the energy to contain himself.

 _"_ _Tell me you had to do it, Hutch,"_ he had pleaded quietly as they stood unseen in one of Metro's abandoned hallways. He hadn't known then what he knew now about Hutch's lies or his past. At the time he had no logical reason to question his partner's intensions regarding such painful event, only a tired, nagging feeling of wrongness—something both Huntley and Blaine would have summarized as his brilliant intuition at work. _"Tell me that it was him or you, that you pulled the trigger to save your life."_

 _"_ _It was him or me,"_ Hutch had said, his voice deep and mechanical, his eyes hidden beneath the dark sunglasses he would eventually remove and place on Starsky's face, hiding the telltale glisten of impending tears, before they left the building. _"I did what I had to do to protect myself, baby."_

 _"Was that what this was?"_ Starsky had wanted to ask. But allowing Hutch to pull him into a swift, grounding embrace, he hadn't said a word.

"That case was fascinating," Baker continued. "There was almost a nonsensical, fantastic quality to it. Paired with Narco, you and Hutch were working undercover to take down James Stryker, a real drug kingpin if anyone ever saw one. He was dangerous—still is. Why you the two ever thought you could win against him, I'll never understand. You were able to bust his supplier but, other than that, nothing went as planned. A very large amount of cocaine went missing, you and Hutch were fingered by both IA and the Stryker as the ones who took it. In the end, the drugs were recovered, after being arrested Stryker walked on the charges, and Hutch shot and killed another cop. The news outlets were insatiable in their coverage of the case—and the two of you. The story was so huge that everyone seemed to have opinion on what should have happened instead of what actually did. Even Nancy Grace chimed in, providing five minutes of colorful commentary. We did a case study of the third-page article that appeared in the _Sentinel_ in my Mass Media class later on that semester. I will never forget the picture of the two of you trying to sneak out of the building that was paired with it, or the rather judgmental tone the journalist had taken."

"Me either," Starsky admitted. Though he wasn't eager to consider ghosts of the past, the fall-out of the Stryker case had been too massive to avoid then and too defining to ignore now. He surprised by how wounding the article Baker was referencing still was—even after all these years.

 _"_ _I know all about you,"_ Detective Corman's threatening words came rushing back—as did the memory of the afternoon he had said them as he, literally and figuratively, pushed Hutch's back against a wall.

 _"_ _You don't know shit about me!"_ Hutch had seethed, shoving Corman back a little too-hard. He had been angry then, almost irrational, as the elder detective's misplaced words didn't seem to justify such ferocity, nor did they seem to warrant the hint of fear Starsky had seen flickering in Hutch's eyes.

Had Corman somehow known then what everyone knew now, or had the threat been empty?

"The reporter called Hutch a murder, you know," Baker continued. Her easy demeanor disappearing, her tone becoming more taunting and challenging with each word. "That article was condemning; it suggested that Hutch was hiding behind his badge when he pulled the trigger, that he and Detective Corman had been engaged in a disagreement long before being forced to play nice on that case. He thought that Hutch had only been waiting for the right moment to—"

"What do you want?" Starsky demanded.

"Don't play games," Baker chortled. "You and I know each other well. We've had enough discussions, by now, for you to know I never really _want_ anything."

"Then what do you _need_?"

"I was just about to ask you the same thing. As I said: you're a hard man to get a hold of. You changed your cellphone number, _again_."

"Yeah, well, I was getting sick of your solicitous calls."

"Really? I always assumed you enjoyed our banter. Of course, I also assumed that Hutch was the one who was changing the number for you. He's does an awful lot for you these days, doesn't he? Dropping your uniforms off at the dry cleaners, collecting you from crime scenes, taking care of you when you push yourself too far, all while managing your household. What a guy; I never would have thought he was the type be content sitting at home doing nothing but playing caretaker to you. I hope his change in aspirations aren't symptomatic of something else."

"What the _hell_ is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," Baker said snidely. "How is married life, anyway?"

" _Fantastic_."

"Really?"

"Absolutely."

"Why I don't I believe that? In the five months since the two of you vowed to love and honor each other until death do you part, you and Hutch have spent more time separated than together. You practically live at your aunt and uncle's place, that is, when you're not hiding out in your best friend's bar."

"Are you spying on me?"

"Me? Of course not. Mike on the other hand, well, he's managed to compile quite a dossier on you. And speaking of best friends, I heard that Hutch's isn't around anymore."

Starsky frowned, unconsciously tracing his index finger over his ill-concealed scar. Was Baker bluffing, or did she really know about Jack Mitchell's untimely death?—the details of which, Starsky still hadn't verified himself. "What else have you heard?"

"About?"

"Hutch."

"Well," Baker sighed, dramatically elongating the word. "Nothing much. He remains as stoic and mysterious as ever. Spends a whole lot of his time in that basement, but that's not really a secret. Did you know that when you aren't around he spends _all_ his time down there? He doesn't come up for hours. I suppose it'll be days now that your roommate isn't there force him to come back up again."

"I'm assuming Mike has his eyes on Hutch, too?" Starsky said flatly.

"Sure does. But you old partner is quite a bit sneakier than you are. He seems to be applying the lessons he learned in his previous life as an undercover cop, don't leave a trail anyone can follow and don't get caught."

"Get caught doing what?"

"Your guess is as good as mine." Baker grinned. "Didn't you hear me? I said he was covert. Endlessly sneaky. Though, that's kinda his MO, right? Even when the two of you were cops he had a vibe about him, serious and _secretive_."

"Do you know that it's illegal to electronically survey someone without their consent, unless you're an officer of the law? You didn't happen to graduate the police academy without me hearing about it, did you Callie?"

"You're funny."

"I'm actually very serious. In my line of work, we call what you're doing stalking," Starsky rumbled. "Stop following Hutch, and stop harassing me."

"I'm not harassing you! Thanks to your eternally changing cell phone number and your very protective superior, I haven't spoken to you in nearly five months. And I'm not stalking Hutch. Occasionally, I causally observe him on the very public sidewalk outside of your home. No big deal, no electronics, no recording, and nothing illegal."

"Then what are you doing there?"

"It just so happens, that strip of Venice is fantastic for running. The traffic is manageable and the sidewalk goes on for miles." Baker shrugged casually. "Occasionally, while running laps from streetlight to streetlight, I see Hutch entering your basement—"

" _Callie_ ," Starsky groaned, the word seeping with irritation. "The sidewalk is on the _front_ of the building."

"So?"

" _So_ , the entry to the basement is around back. If you actually are running from streetlight to streetlight in our neighborhood..."

"What neighborhood? You guys live in the top of an abandoned restaurant surrounded by equally abandoned or dying business establishments."

"...like you say you are, then you wouldn't be able to see the basement door from the sidewalk. You'd have to be in the back parking lot which would mean you are trespassing on our property."

"It's not trespassing if I'm standing in the alley. By law, it's a public space."

"You're running in our alley?" Starsky challenged skeptically. "Better be careful; it's full of potholes. You might just trip, fall, and break something important."

"Is that a threat?" Baker smirked. "Oh, you're so scary detective. The alley is public property; what I'm doing back there is of no concern to you. I could be doing aerobics for a gang of stray cats and there's nothing you could about it. And if I happen to somehow observe Hutch, from a distance of course, entering the basement there's nothing you can do about that, either." Baker smiled, her eyes shining with glee, as leaned in and continued softly, "But between you and me, and off the record, if I were trying to follow Hutch, or should you feel the need to do so yourself, a little word to the wise, he makes it very difficult. It's hard to track his movements and impossible to corner him a parking garage. That boy is slick, here one second and gone the next."

Starsky frowned, his stomach churning uncomfortably. "Leave him alone, Callie. I mean it. You don't want to mess with him."

"Like he needs your protection!" Baker scoffed. "Didn't you hear a word I just said? Your husband is perfectly capable of giving anyone the slip. Not that I care, at all. You're the one I'm really interested in. Hutch is old news compared to you. But it's really a shame you don't seem to be as interested in me, what I know, or what I have to say."

"What could you possibly know about anything?"

"I know something you don't know I know," Baker taunted in a sing-song tone. "Something I'm not afraid to use as leverage if I have to. I'll tell you what, you agree to an interview, just answer some very basic questions about what happened at the Marcus Compound and the bodies you've been stumbling across since, and I'll forget I know anything."

" _You're_ threatening to extort _me_?" Starsky said wryly. "You have to be joking. I'm a cop and you're basically a kid."

Standing erect, Baker dissolved into laughter. A deep-chested, abrasive noise that ground on Starsky's nerves and left his heart pounding with fresh fear.

"And I quote _,"_ she sneered. _""There's a monster in my house. He sleeps in my bed and wears Hutch's face, but isn't him. The way he looks me, the things he says, let's me know that it can't really be him.""_

"Where did you hear that?" Starsky demanded angrily. It was impossible. Baker couldn't know what she was alluding she did. There was no way she would have had access to such a thing; no possible way she could be standing in front of him regurgitating his greatest fear—the knowledge he had been trying so fervently to deny.

"You said that, didn't you detective? Those were the words that you said to the on-call doctor in an emergency room months after Hutch was discharged from his position at Bay City PD. That was the statement that facilitated your first admission for a short-term psychiatric hold. 72 hours later you were discharged, and armed with an arsenal of medication you went home…"

"Who told you that?"

"...Your life was pretty uneventful for the next few months. You were doing well, and things were looking up. Then, four months later, spouting the exact same paranoid statements about Hutch, you were admitted for another psychiatric evaluation…"

"You said you weren't doing anything illegal!"

"…The same thing happened. You were held for the 72 hours, then prescribed different medication and sent home. Four more uneventful months passed and then, like clockwork, it happened again. It happened again and again."

"How the _hell_ do you have access to my medical files?"

"Oh, I don't, that's what Mike is for. You see, we live in a digital age. Electronic retention is all the rage. Medical records, police reports, anything of interest, really, are all digitally stored in encrypted files on servers. And what remains hidden and untouchable for most can be made easily accessible for pretty much anyone, just as long as you know the right people and are willing to pay the price. Mike is very good at what he does; he has ways of hacking into pretty much any database you ask him to."

"What do you want from me, Callie?"

"You really aren't a very good listener, are you? I want what I already asked for."

"An interview."

"Exactly."

"I can't tell you what I don't know," Starsky said vehemently. "If you're demanding I talk about the Marcus case, or volunteer a soundbite for your shitty little public access show, it's not going to happen. Simon Marcus died two years ago. I don't remember anything about that time, the Blackwell case, or what happened to me at the compound. It's nothing but a blur to me now."

Baker rolled her eyes. "What's up with all those bodies you've been finding? Do your convenient lapses in memory extend to how you miraculously located all those corpses, too?"

"I don't know anything about that," Starsky said, nearly shouting from behind clenched teeth.

"Oh, sure, you don't," Baker laughed bitterly. "You're just like the rest of them, aren't you? You call yourself an officer of the law, a boy in blue tasked with protecting and defending the city. But just like Hutch, Chief Ryan, John Blaine, and the rest of the crooked law enforcement flunkies we're supposed to admire and respect, the only person you're protecting is yourself."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Simon Marcus is dead, detective. Nobody cares about him, or whatever Hutch did or didn't do to get himself ousted from police department. Public interest on those events have lapsed. It was swiftly stolen away by pop-culture and celebrity gossip, the next violent catastrophe or the one after that. You see, the public's appetite for coverage of horrifying events may be insatiable, but it is fleeting. Nothing lasts; what feels earth-shattering one day is nothing more than a distant memory the next."

"You're awfully cynical for someone so young."

"And you're awfully stupid for someone so old," Baker snapped.

"Why do you care about any of this?" Starsky frowned. "Why are you spending so much time chasing answers you're never going to find? Why are you trying so hard to report on a story that nobody is interested in?"

"Because it isn't right that everything Bay City PD doesn't want to comment on gets shoved under the rug. What happened two years ago on the Marcus Compound matters! What happened to these men, why these felons were brutally murdered, matters! People avoid what they don't want to see, they ignore the things they don't want to think about, and they spend more time covering up the truth than accepting it. I want to give these events a voice. I want the true story to be told."

"And you think you're going to be able to change that? You think that by broadcasting your own opinions and contrived theories about bodies in alleys and a serial killer is going to change how people act? It isn't. Nobody watches your show, Callie. Nobody cares about anything you have to say."

"You care," Baker spat. "You wouldn't be talking to me if you didn't. You wouldn't be avoiding me if you didn't have something to hide. And I don't know what that something is, if you're protecting yourself or Hutch, but you can't keep your secrets forever." She snorted, her face contorting with a mixture of pleasure and disgust. "And you, of all people, can't contend with time. By my count, it's been five months since the last time your paranoia about Hutch reared its ugly head. You're overdue for another irrepressible mental collapse and another admission to a psychiatric ward. The clock is ticking, detective, but don't worry, I can wait it out. I'll catch you again after your next 72 hour hold. You're always so much more agreeable once they switch your meds."

Starsky wanted to reply but couldn't form any words. Mouth agape, he stared numbly as Baker abruptly strode away, her well-timed words echoing in his ears, intermixing with the sickening pounding of his heart.

TBC


	51. Chapter Fifty-One

Sitting in the Camaro, Starsky's heart pounded frantically. He felt unhinged, traumatized, and victimized, a trio of emotions that didn't mix well with the powerful feelings his meeting with Blaine had left behind.

Callie Baker was problem, a nosey one at that. He swore under his breath, calling her a litany of derogatory things before he ran out of air and was forced to inhale once more. What gave her the right—the audacity— to confront him like that? Appearing out of nowhere to harass him with hints of the truth, threatening him with the events of the past and alluding to the things she thought she knew but couldn't possibly understand. It was daring action that would come with repercussions—there was no doubt about that.

Pulling his iPhone from his pocket, he checked his notifications: five missed calls and two text messages, not a single one was from Hutch.

 ** _Tried to called you, pal,_** Lucas Huntley's catalytic words were reflected clearly on his iPhone's screen. ** _I checked with the hospitals and confirmed Jackson Mitchell's DOD. He was pronounced nearly 48 hours ago, cause of death currently unknown._**

Reading the inevitable words were devastating; the message shook Starsky, cut him in an irreparable way, the depth of which he couldn't began to understand—or explain.

Though he hadn't liked Mitchell, he hadn't wanted him dead. In his current state of mind, he hadn't wanted to believe life was that fragile, that someone could be alive one moment and dead the next. He was foolish for not wanting to accept such an irrefutable truth—he knew that. If his chosen career hadn't left him aware of how quickly life could be taken, then his childhood had. His father had been killed one unassuming day, and his life had changed in an instant. After Michael Starsky's death not one thing in his eldest son's life had remained the same.

It wasn't that Starsky hadn't believed Hutch when he had advised him of Mitchell's sudden death, but it wasn't until this moment—holding his iPhone tightly in the palm of his shaking hand—that he realized just how much he hadn't wanted to believe it was true.

He didn't want to believe any of it was true—not what had happened to him two years ago in bunker on the Marcus Compound, or the events that were taking place now, not Hutch's strange behavior or his obsession with the basement, not his own fleeting grip on reality or his ominous dreams, not the pictures Hutch had been keeping, not the unshakable sense of wrongness that had settled into his life, and not his miraculous discoveries of the bodies or their deep incriminating scars.

"There's a monster in my house," Starsky whispered, repeating the scandalous disclosure Baker had taken such pleasure torturing him with. The tired statement left him feeling terrified and relieved. He had said it before; as Baker had taunted, he had said it again and again. Though he hadn't dared say it out loud since returning to work, he had never stopped thinking it. He had tried to ignore his dread, and he had stopped giving his terror a voice, for fear of what someone would think, for fear of what it would mean. "There's a monster in my house," he repeated softly, the certain words awakening a fragmented memory hidden in the depths of his mind.

 _"I'm crazy, you know,"_ he had whispered late one night. Back pressed against the headboard, his tearful eyes were set on the nightlight shining predominately in the corner of their bedroom. He couldn't remember if this moment had been after his first psychiatric hold or his second. But he remembered the aggressive antiseptic smell that had clung to his clothes, seemingly seeping into his skin. He remembered his hair had been cut too short, again. And he remembered still having the biting hospital ID bracelet on his wrist.

" _No, you're not,"_ Hutch had quickly assured as he sat on the bed next to him. _"You are courageous and strong. You lived through something terrible, the lingering trauma of which is demanding a voice, that's why you feel the way you do. Why you question the truth you know or feel more confused some days than others. It is difficult having the courage to live knowing everything would have been easier if you would have died. People look at you, not knowing the depth of you pain. They are going judge you for a past you had no say in. They are going to label you a victim and treat you differently, all while asking why you cannot be the same person you were before you were brutalized. But you cannot let them win. You cannot let your confusion win. You know the truth, and in time you will learn to embrace it."_ Grasping Starsky's hand tightly, Hutch's lips curled into a smile and his eyes glistened in the moonlight. _"You're not crazy,"_ he affirmed gleefully. _"You are the sanest person I know. You see so readily what others chose to ignore, and you live with the terror of a truth they zealously deny. The world doesn't understand what you know; it doesn't see what you see. It is easier for them to label you, to change you, than it is to tolerate the terror that comes with knowing the truth. There is a darkness in the world, sweetheart. You know it and I know it, too. You saw it in the bunker, and you see it in me."_

Starsky hadn't thought much of the words then and he didn't want to consider them now. But he couldn't calm the question the memory awoke: Had Hutch uttered the words merely out of support, or had they been a clue, a veiled disclosure about what was really going on?

Five men had died, all of them viciously murdered, all of them sharing his distinct scar. But was that all they shared?

Closing his eyes, Starsky longed for the charred man to appear, to be granted a waking conversation with the dead man who always seemed to know so much.

"Where are you?" Starsky whispered as his vision remained dark. "How come you'll only talk to me in my dreams?"

He opened his eyes as the question remained unanswered. It was just as well. The charred man didn't have to tell him what he already knew; he had only wanted the company. For a moment, he had wanted to feel a little less alone.

"Cameron-fucking-Starsk," he laughed bitterly, the sound grating on his nerves. Though he knew the name should have bothered him, it didn't. It was familiar; in an odd way, it was comforting.

The charred man was dead but Starsky felt closer to him than he anyone else. He knew his affinity for the dead man had been born from something, but what? Was it the culmination of loneliness or instability? Confusion or grief? Or had the charred man chosen _him_? Had he decided to bind himself to him in an effort to help Starsky contend with the horrific things he knew?

And if Starsky was honest—if he finally gathered the courage to allow himself to be such a thing—he would have to admit that he knew a lot.

He knew he was lonely and unstable. He knew that Hutch had left after being dismissed from Bay City PD because, captive to his grief and guilt, he hadn't had the courage to come home. He knew that Huntley and Blaine were right: his intuition had always been spot on. He knew that the charred man was right, too: he couldn't go back now that he'd begun; the past had changed him—it had changed all of them. And with crippling certainty, he _knew_ what he hadn't had the courage to accept the day Hutch had finally returned: That the man who had come back wasn't the same as the one who had left.

"There's a monster in my house," Starsky whispered. "He wears Hutch's face, but it isn't him. The way he looks at me, the sinister sheen in his _fucking_ eyes, tells me that it can't really be him."

There was little point in denying what he knew now or the complications that knowledge would inevitably bring. After all, Baker had been right, too: his mental declines had always come upon him like clockwork and he was long overdue.

 _Well, he wasn't that overdue_ , Starsky mused humorlessly, Baker's well-timed words echoing in his ears. He had felt off for weeks; he had been denying the truth for longer—something that needed to change soon. He was done running, after all. The decision was liberating, empowering but terrifying. And determined return home and face whatever awaited him there, Starsky decided on a last minute detour, seeking brief respite at the only place he could think of.

Xx

"I need a beer," he said, the gruff words hinting at a hollow threat if the veiled demand wasn't abided by. Sinking into a barstool, he watched Huggy regard him through dark eyes slit with concern.

"No can do," Huggy said, wiping a wet towel over the bar top. "Firm instruction from your other half, remember?"

"Sure do. But the thing is, Hug, I'm no longer taking orders from him, and neither should you."

"Did you tell _him_ that?" Huggy grinned.

"I don't need to."

"Because you're not taking orders from him anymore."

"No." Starsky frowned, overcome by a surge of simmering anger. Huggy didn't understand—nobody had ever really _understood_ his fears when he voiced them before. How could he expect things to be any different now? "I'm sure Hutch already knows exactly how I feel. You see, he takes great pride in knowing things he shouldn't know about me. _Shit_ , he probably knows a thing or two about you, too."

"Yeah." Huggy groaned. "I'm gonna pretend I didn't just hear that."

"Pretending doesn't change anything, Hug. Besides, why do you have to pretend you didn't just hear what I said? Is it because you're not comfortable with what it would mean if I had actually believed it?"

"No."

"Oh, I know, it's because you're tired of being stuck in the middle of my shit. You're sick of listening to me complain while I adamantly refuse to accept the truth right in front of me."

"That isn't it, either," Huggy said flatly. "But, since you brought it up, do you mind clueing me in on exactly what truth you don't want to accept?"

"I'm not going to tell if you don't already know."

"Why not?"

"Because it isn't going to change anything." Starsky shrugged obstinately. "I can't make you see what you'd rather avoid. And I can't really blame you for not wanting to see it. I wish I could ignore it, too."

"Okay, man," Huggy sighed, his expression fatigued. "I give. How about you tell me what's really going on.

"Nothing's going on."

"It doesn't sound like nothing to me. You okay?"

Starsky knew the question was rhetorical, his own answer irrelevant. Judging by his expression, Huggy had already decided he was far from okay.

"Of course, I'm okay,"

"You sure?"

"Sure, I'm sure. But I won't be for long if you keep me waiting for that beer."

"Hutch better not bitch at me for doing this," Huggy groused. Abandoning the towel on the shiny bar top, he complied with the request. Expertly pouring a beer, he slid it between Starsky's waiting hands. "What's the occasion?"

Taking a deep drink, Starsky shook his head. White foam clung to his upper lip as he carefully placed the beer on the bar and reached into the back pocket of his jeans.

"So," Huggy pressed. "Is this a celebration or a pity party?"

"Neither."

Pulling a trio of prescription bottles from his pocket, Starsky lined them up by his beer glass. Popping the tops one-by-one, he gave little care to where they landed as they fell from the bottles to scatter on the floor. He didn't normally keep the pills on him; it was pure fluke that he had decided to keep them in his possession today.

 _No, not a complete fluke_ , he thought wryly. After discovering the hidden pictures in Hutch's wallet and his conversation with Huntley, he hadn't wanted to leave them at home.

"You coulda fooled me," Huggy said, eyeing the prescription bottles. Extending his hand, he attempted to grab them, his face fell as it was rapidly pushed away. "What are you doing?"

"What I should have done months ago," Starsky growled. "Nobody touches these pills but me." He was done explaining himself, finished allowing other people to take care of him or allowing them to have the upper-hand. Callie Baker was wrong about him, but in an obscure way she was right too.

People avoided what they didn't want to see and they ignored things they didn't want to think about—he was no different. He had spent more time allowing Hutch disguise the truth than accepting it because it was too hard to think about—it was too frightening to give attention to.

"Blaine benched me."

"Shit, man, I'm sorry. What happened?"

"He thinks I'm psychotic."

"He actually said that?" Huggy asked skeptically.

"He didn't need to; I know how he feels," Starsky said, chasing the bitter words with another drink. "Jack Mitchell is dead."

" _What_?"

"You heard me."

" _Jesus_ ," Huggy breathed. Seemingly at a loss for words, he looked numbly around the room for a moment before setting his concerned gaze on Starsky. "How's Hutch taking it?"

"Oh," Starsky sighed torpidly. "I don't know. Why don't you ask him the next time he turns up here looking for a stiff drink?"

"That'll be a long time from now," Huggy said flatly. "Hutch doesn't hang around here anymore. If he's imbibing, he's doing it somewhere else." Crossing his arms expectantly, he nodded. "But how do you not know how he's doing after something like this? He's your husband. You live with the guy."

Grinding his jaw, Starsky stared at Huggy for a moment, carefully weighing the complications of what he wanted to say against what he knew he should. Lying wouldn't help him now. It would pacify the people around him, but it wouldn't serve him well. It wouldn't calm his dread or give him his job back. It wouldn't miraculously return his life—or the life he and Hutch had built together—to the normal, happy, palatable existence they had enjoyed before Simon Marcus came into their lives and stripped them of their secrets and the fierce solidarity they once knew.

 _There's a monster in my house_ , he thought feverishly, holding on to the righteous words. They couldn't go back, nothing could ever be as picturesque as it had once been; he had come too far and experienced too much to hope for such an improbable outcome now. _And it picked a hell of a disguise, because nobody knows it's an imposter but me._

"Well, that's the thing, Hug," he said. "I'm not exactly sure what it is that married, or who I'm living with." Finishing the beer, Starsky pushed the glass in front of his best friend and nodded. "I'm going to need another one of those."

"I don't think Hutch would appreciate—"

"I don't give a shit what it wants, and neither should you."

" _It_?" Face contorting, Huggy nearly choked on the word. "Starsky, this conversation is starting to sound too familiar." He nodded at open pill bottles. "You sure you're taking those when you should? Hutch isn't an _it_ , he's your husband."

"That's exactly what it wants you to believe. You see, Huggy, Hutch left but he didn't come back. I don't know what's living my house but it isn't him."

Mouth slightly agape, Huggy stared mutely. "Shit," he whispered, eventually, shifting his sad gaze to the floor.

"You don't believe me," Starsky said simply. "That's fine. I'm not real sure I want to believe myself. I've been trying to run from how I feel for so long now. I've been ignoring my intuition; I've been a mess and I'm not sure I really want to know the reason why." Hand closing around one of the prescription bottles, he tilted his head in a devastated manner. "I don't think that the person I'm living with, that the thing I married, is human. I mean, just think about what that means. No matter how you look at it, it isn't good. If I'm right, and that isn't Hutch then what the fuck is it? What does it want from me? Why is it so intent on isolating me, making me feel disconnected and alone?"

"Starsky, you're not alone in this," Huggy assured. "You got a whole gang of people who love you."

"But I am," Starsky insisted resolutely. Though genuine, Huggy's gentle words were meant to comfort an entirely different problem. He didn't believe the truth Starsky was conveying; he couldn't. He was too focused on what he was interpreting as the problem. Too concerned with the wrong damning details, he was ignoring the most glaring of them all.

Hutch wasn't Hutch. He couldn't be, not with the things he said, not with how odd and secretive he had become. Anyone who really knew him had to realize that. But they didn't. They were too focused on his own behavior—his supposed wavering grip on reality—to pay Hutch's odd behavior any real mind.

"No, you're not. You have your aunt and uncle, Hutch and me. You've been struggling lately, we all know that. First with the stress of returning to work and, now, Mitchell's death, I think we can all understand how things would feel a little intense for you right now."

"It makes me struggle," Starsky said, hysteria creeping into his voice. He knew he was saying too much; he was going to invite trouble. This was the wrong time—a terrible moment to be displaying irrational behavior, but he couldn't stop the words from tumbling out; he couldn't ignore the horrifying dormant knowledge that Callie Baker had been careful to ensure her words awoke. He had to keep reiterating the truth; he had to say it over and over for fear of forgetting it—for fear of never having the courage to admit it, again. " _It_ intensifies everything I feel. It always has and it always will. It makes me afraid to admit what I know. It pushes and pushes me until I don't have anywhere to go..."

"Starsky, nobody— _nothing_ — is pushing you."

"...I don't know why it's doing this. I don't know why it chose to come back as Hutch, or why it's so intent on never letting me go. I don't understand what it wants from me."

"Hutch is Hutch, man. I don't know how else to tell you that. You know what, I really think that maybe we oughta call him, huh? Then he can come down here and prove he's himself in person. I'm sure that would make you feel better."

"Nothing is going to make me feel better!" Starsky spat. "Aren't you listening to a word I'm saying to you? If I'm right and that… that _thing_ isn't Hutch then why the hell would I want it come down here? Why the fuck would I want to see it again?"

"What if you're wrong?"

Though simple, Huggy's question was disarming. Inhaling a deep, shaky breath, Starsky tried not to fixate on it. He didn't want to think of such a thing—he didn't want to consider what life would be like if everyone else was right and he was wrong—if Hutch really was Hutch and the only monsters were the ones who existed in his nightmares.

But, even so, he found himself assaulted by the past. Moments he had been too young to understand the context of at the time made complete sense to him now, culminating into the solid memory of one night, the details of which left him aching with pain and desperate to avoid the bothersome question Huggy had poignantly posed.

 _"You're not my husband!"_ Rachel Starsky had screamed, her voice filtering through the small apartment the family shared.

 _"Please, sweetheart, lower your voice_ ," Michael Starsky had said, his voice quiet and tired. _"It's late you're gonna to wake the boys. You're gonna upset them."_

 _"You're an impostor. You're one of them! Mike wouldn't say these things to me, he wouldn't… he wouldn't do this to me!"_

 _"I'm not doing anything to you."_

Hiding unseen in the dark hallway, Davy jumped, his young face contorting with fear as his mother screamed shrilly, her hands clenched in fists as she lunged at his uniform clad father.

" _Rachel_ ," Michael pleaded, grasping her wrists tightly. _"Babe, it's me. I swear to you, there is no other person I could be. Please, please, calm down."_

 _"Let go of me!"_

 _"Not until you promise not to hurt yourself."_

 _"You're the one hurting me!"_ Rachel exclaimed in a crazed manner, twisting her arms in his grasp. _"You're the imposter, not me!"_ she added shrilly. _"You're one of them!"_

 _"Stop,"_ Michael said gently. _"Babe, I'm begging you. You're going to wake the boys, and it's already been a hard day."_

 _"You're a liar!"_

 _"Why can't we just have a normal night?"_ Michael pleaded as Rachel slipped from his grasp. Taking a step back, she lunged at him again, but anticipating the movement, he gathered her into a tight embrace. _"Why can't I come home from a nightshift with you remembering who I am?"_

 _"You're not my Mike,"_ Rachel repeated fiercely. _"He wouldn't say these things to me, he wouldn't… he would do this to me…!"_

 _"Dad?"_ Davy asked, his young voice shaking with fear. Emerging from the hallway, he moved to linger in the doorway of his parent's bedroom as his mother erupted into incoherent sobs. _"What's wrong with mom?"_

 _"Hey, kiddo."_ Looking at Davy over his wife's trembling shoulder, Michael forced a smile. _"Nothing's wrong, Davy,"_ he assured deeply. _"Everything is okay."_

 _"She's crying."_

 _"I know. She... she had a bad dream."_

 _"A nightmare?"_

 _"Yeah."_

Davy frowned. _"Grown-ups aren't supposed to have nightmares."_

 _"Yeah, well, some do."_

 _"Because of monsters?"_

 _"You could say that."_

 _"But, grown-ups are supposed to know that monsters aren't real."_

 _"Go back to bed, son,"_ his father urged, his voice tight.

 _"Dad?"_ Clutching the doorway, Davy hesitated. _"When I'm grown up, am I gonna have nightmares that make me scream like that?"_

Bottom lip trembling, Michael held Rachel tightly and bowed his head, pressing his forehead into his wife's collarbone. _"Oh, God, Davy,"_ he said, choking on impending tears. _"I really, really hope not."_

When he was child, Starsky hadn't understood the worry in his father's tone—or the devastation etched into his face—as he answered the simple childish question. But as an adult he did. The illness that lived inside of his mother, lived inside of him, too. Though it had never really presented itself, the threat had always been there; it was in his blood, imprinted inside his genes.

And that night, his father had been fearful that one day Starsky would succumb to the hereditary disorder his wife struggled with, a crippling, unavoidable fear Starsky had been forced to live with every day for the last two years.

 _Everyone has a bit of darkness inside._ Wasn't that what Simon Marcus had said? Now the words circled Starsky's mind in a maddening hiss.

Hutch's darkness was his past, brutal events he hadn't had any choice but to endure.

Starsky's own wasn't so obvious. Of course, he had told lies, been unfaithful to the man he loved, but that wasn't all of it. Unlike Hutch, his darkness wasn't hidden in the past, it was disguised by the future—it was the future. It loomed over him like storm cloud, threatening confusion and enveloping him in dread and fear.

He didn't want to be crazy, there were so many other unsavory things he'd chose over that. So many other things he'd eagerly trade in order to protect himself from the weight of the truth.

"What if you're wrong?" Huggy asked again.

Grabbing Starsky's empty beer glass, he placed it behind the bar, assessing the open prescription bottles out of the side of his eyes. For a moment, Starsky wondered if his friend was counting his pills. If Huggy, like everyone, had become a little-too-accustomed to taking care of him, of talking him down from an impending breakdown or ensuring he completed a litany of necessary tasks.

"If I'm wrong, then that means I really am crazy, doesn't it?" Starsky asked.

Swallowing dryly, he shook his head. He didn't want to be wrong. He couldn't accept the kind of life that was in store for him if he was. He couldn't tolerate knowing that Hutch—his Hutch, the passionate, protective loyal man he had once known and loved so much—would never leave him. No matter his physical or mental circumstance, regardless of good times or bad, Hutch would remain by his side, forever.

What kind of life was that? Starsky couldn't bear the thought that Hutch had endured — survived—a horrible childhood only to be bound to someone whose tumultuous mental unpredictability promised a future that in some ways was equally as bad as the past he struggled to forget.

"And, honestly, I don't know which is worse, which truth I'm dreading to figure out is the wrong one," Starsky continued. "Because if Hutch is who you think he is, who the whole God-damn world seems to think he is, do you know what that really means? It means the darkness won. It means that with all the things I lost on the Marcus Compound, and believe me, I know I lost a lot, that Simon Marcus took the one thing he knew I couldn't tolerate living without. He took Hutch from me."

"No, he didn't," Huggy disagreed.

"But it doesn't matter if I'm right or wrong, because either way, I lose. Either way, Hutch is gone. He is _gone_ to me."

"He's not."

"He's either truthfully an imposter or I'll live the rest of my life thinking he is, because I'm as unhinged as my mom. Trauma changes you," Starsky scoffed bitterly. "Isn't that what you're all always telling me? That I've changed. That I need to embrace the change and sit with the truth, to accept the way things really are? But the problem with doing that is, it doesn't work if the problem isn't all you. And I don't _think_ I'm the only one who's changed. I don't want to _believe_ that the problem is me. And I don't want to _accept_ that maybe the only thing I have left to look forward to in life, is this." Grasping the prescription bottles tightly in his hand, Starsky's eyes sparkled with a hint of rage.

He didn't accept the truth everyone else was so eager to believe. He couldn't, and he didn't have to, because a series of glaring facts still remained—things he couldn't have imagined, information he couldn't have construed.

Five men were dead. Two of the bodies he had been led to, but the other three Whitley had found.

Hutch had always had secrets—he had always had something to hide—his choices and behavior had always been occasionally questionable. He had sent a damning text message to Whitley directing him to bodies; he had unsettling pictures hidden away in his wallet; he had a basement project he refused anyone to see; and he had a childhood best friend whose cause of death was currently unknown.

Hutch had left, vanished for nearly three weeks, and then he had returned. But who—what—had really come back?

"The real question is this," Starsky rumbled, his voice suddenly deep and dangerous. "Why is everyone so much more willing to believe that I'm unstable than they are to admit that something might be wrong with Hutch?"

"Starsky, lower your voice," Huggy warned worriedly.

"Why is it easier to believe I'm nuts than it is to admit the truth that is sitting right in front of you? Hutch left, Huggy, and he didn't come back alone. I'm not even sure he came back at all!"

"You're making a scene. Listen to me, man, take a deep breath and calm down."

"I'm not _fucking_ crazy!" Holding the prescription bottles firmly, Starsky flung them as hard as he could behind the bar. The pills flew through the air in flurry, scattering in all directions as they hit the floor. "I came here, because after everything we've been through, all the years we've known each other, and all the things you saw, I thought, you of all people, would be able to understand that!"

" _Okay_." Huggy held his hands up in surrender. "It's okay," he said, his eyes darting around the sparsely filled room. "It's okay." Looking at Starsky, he forced a smile and comforting nod. "It's all cool, man. You're not crazy, I know that. We _all_ know that."

"Yeah, but you don't believe it!" Standing, Starsky face contorted with livid disgust. "What happened to you, Huggy? You believed me before. _Shit_ , you were as afraid of Simon Marcus as I was, and now you're just like everyone else. You avoid what you don't want to see and ignore what you don't want to think about, and that's fine for the rest of you. But I can't do that anymore."

Xx

Leaving Huggy's, Starsky drove around the city for hours. He had no destination in mind, no intention to run or hide from the truth—rather suspend its complications. He only wanted to pretend for one more moment that everything wasn't as bad as it seemed.

Driving numbly he ended up parked in front of the beach house he and Hutch had once shared. He hadn't meant to go there; he had been intent on _never_ going there again. Though, at the time, the decision had been impulsive—a frantic grappling for control after being rescued from the Marcus Compound—he had different reasons for avoiding it now.

The house held too many memories—good and bad, blissful and miserable, so many things had unfolded in that house. The first time Hutch had told Starsky he loved him was in in the kitchen. Starsky had been so surprised—so nervous by the very notion of what all meant—that he dropped a glass, shattering it on the floor between their bare feet. It took two weeks for him to summon the courage to reciprocate the words. The look on Hutch's face had been outstanding, as had been the way he gripped the sides of Starsky's face and pulled him into a deep kiss.

He and Hutch had been happier here, hadn't they? They hadn't started to really lose each other until moving into Venice Place. A horrible move in hindsight, a terrible misstep in a series of haunting mistakes, each made with the intent to heal but only serving to further wound.

The beach house had been painted and surround by a perfect, picket fence. There was a dog in the yard, barking playfully as it chased a laughing little girl from one end of the front yard to the other. Tiny and blonde, the girl's giggles were infectious, and Starsky smiled. Rolling down the window, he planted his elbow on the windowsill, rested his chin in his palm and watched her for a while.

The scene was so idyllic. It was shame it would ever end.

And it did end, soon the girl's mother was calling her to come inside, and Starsky was left alone, his careful gaze canvasing his old neighborhood like common criminal as he struggled to contend with how he felt.

Stopping at a red light, Starsky tapped his thumb against the Camaro's steering wheel anxiously and exhaled a taxed breath, looking around the intersection as he waited to be allowed to move.

The people in the surrounding cars didn't pay him any mind as he stared aimlessly at them, shifting his gaze from vehicle to vehicle, person to person. Absently, he wondered where they were going, if any of them were dreading the future as much as he was.

The sun was quickly dipping in the horizon, casting an obscure shadow across the city and reminding him that it was time to go home. It would be dark soon, and he didn't dare contend with the night alone.

Huggy's probing questions had awakened a stockpile of memories. Brutal images of his mother, before and after his father's untimely death. Horrible moments flashed though his mind, sporadic images that assaulted him with the glaring truth, illustrating the depths of her illness and the length his father had gone to contain her symptoms and hide her odd-behavior while he was alive. He had done a good job, too. It wasn't until after his father's death and he and his brother had been left in only her care that Starsky started to understand how sick she really was.

 _"Your father will come back,"_ Rachel had said late one night, her voice firm but frantic. Sitting in the corner of the bedroom, she clutched her knees to her chest, her stained nightgown pooling at the base of her thighs as he gently rocked back and forth. _"He always does."_

 _"Dad's dead, mom,"_ Davy said, for what felt like the millionth time since his father died.

 _"He'll come back,"_ Rachel insisted.

 _"He's not going come back, mom. He can't."_

 _"Don't lie to me, son. Don't be like them."_

 _"I'm not lying."_ Davy cringed. He didn't know who they were or why his mother seemed intent on ensuring that he didn't become one of them. _"Nobody's lying, mom—"_

 _"But they are! They tell us lies and hide the truth. Your father, he became one of them, and that's why he isn't here now."_

 _"One of who?"_ Davy demanded, frustrated tears gathering in his eyes. _"Mom, dad is dead!"_

 _"Davy?"_ a small voice asked from the doorway. _"What's wrong with mommy?"_

 _"Nothing, Nicky,"_ Davy said. _"Go back to bed."_

 _"I don't want to. I can't sleep when you're not in the room,"_ Nicky whined, pointing his small finger at the bedroom at the other end of the hall. _"It's scary in there."_

 _"It's not much better in here,"_ Davy whispered.

"Or here," Starsky said, staring out the windshield as he absently responded to the memory of his younger self. Things had gotten bad after his father died. That night had been one of far too many to count. He still remembered how confused and afraid, grief-stricken and furious, he had been.

As a child, he hated his father for dying, for leaving him and his brother alone to contend with his mother's fierce unpredictable behavior and confusion, and as an adult, Starsky hated him for lying.

Michael was a police officer, he knew the risks of his job. He understood that each day he put on his uniform, strapped his gun belt to his waist could be his last. He was good man, kind and giving. He was devoted to his kids, endlessly faithful to his wife, but he had his faults. His love was shortsighted; he allowed it to disguise the truth, he allowed his fierce, protective affection to compromise the safety of his children.

Rachel was sick; she had an illness that couldn't be ignored, contained, or willed away. Yet, nobody knew she was sick—nobody knew anything was wrong. And so, when Michael was killed, nobody knew what needed to be done. Nobody understood how Rachel wasn't capable of caring for two young boys.

" _Dad_?"

Starsky groaned as the memory came rushing back for what felt like the hundredth time since Huggy's careful question dislodged it from the depths of his memory.

 _"When I'm grown up, am I gonna have nightmares that make me scream like that?"_

 _"Oh, God, Davy, I really, really hope not."_

His father's voice had been devastated, his expression more so. Starsky hadn't recognized the look when he was younger, but did now. Grief-stricken and desperate, the expression said more than words ever could. It was a horrible look; a silent cry of someone who was slowly losing the person they loved the most to an adversary they couldn't fight. Everything about it was haunting, from the deep lines of worry etched in his face to the hopeless glint sparkling in his dull blue eyes.

As a child, Starsky hadn't understood the expression, he had no reason to—no life experience or other occurrences to compare it to—but as an adult he did. It was the way Hutch looked at him.

He jumped as the car behind him honked their horn, the abrasive sound accompanied by the waiving of a disgruntled finger. "Yeah, yeah," Starsky grumbled, pressing his foot heavily on the gas pedal. "Fuck you, too, pal."

Xx

The sun had set; the sky was black, starless and foreboding as it seemed to hang too low. Pulling into his parking place behind Venice Place, setting his eyes on Hutch's perfect pick-up truck, Starsky had a fleeting feeling that he should have felt relieved. But slowly walking the distance between the parked cars and the front door, all he felt was dread.

Hutch was monster—he reminded himself— and he wasn't crazy, there were so many other things he'd rather be than that.

TBC


	52. Chapter Fifty-Two

Climbing the steep staircase of Venice Place, Starsky was overcome by anxiety. He moved at a lugubrious pace; putting one foot numbly in front of the other, each step expelling more and more energy as he moved further and further away from the front door.

He should turn around and run from the apartment, he thought hysterically. He didn't have to face Hutch tonight. He didn't have to face him ever; if he could summon the courage—or harness enough fear—he could turn around, leave, and never look back.

 _You leave as fast as you can,_ Blaine's fragmented words boomed in his head. _You run the other way._

But Starsky knew he couldn't do that—even if he wanted to. If he continued running he would never be able to understand what he was struggling to escape. Running meant never facing the horrific truth holding him in place, freezing him in an eternal loop of devastation and fear. It meant denying the past at the expense of the future—whatever that was destined to be. It meant never having the courage to find Hutch again, never accepting the events that had led them both here, and never having the courage to burden the weight of the terrible thing Hutch had done—what his love for Starsky had influenced him to do.

He had to go forward because there was no going back, but reaching the top of the stairs, Starsky hesitated. Though well-lit, the apartment was unnaturally quiet. The recessed lights illuminating the hallway in a soft, golden hue had once been welcoming and comforting, but tonight the glow was foreboding and disconcerting, a gentle, lulled warning of the terrible things to come. Grimacing, he ground his feet on the hardwood flooring, clenching one hand in a fist at his side as the other wandered to hover by his cheek. Index finger extended, he dug at the scar poorly hidden under his short beard, ferociously smoothing the sharp tip of his fingernail up its length and back down again, an unconscious manifestation of the anxiety clenching his stomach muscles, as his gaze remained locked on the unsettling row of lights.

The hallway lights only existed because of his fear. Given the choice between lighting the short space between the living room and bedrooms and leaving it dark, Starsky theorized that Hutch would have rather kept the space unlit. There was no real reason to have the ceiling embedded with a line of circular lights. The bedrooms and spare bathroom were close enough together to not necessitate such a thing, and Hutch had always seemed to have a healthy appreciation for the dark. Though he never sought dark rooms or small spaces, he seemed to have an affinity for them as of late, an almost detached curiosity about what was hiding unseen in their depths.

 _No_ —Starsky grimaced painfully, his fingernail cutting through the scar and finally drawing blood—all the light fixtures in Venice Place had been purposefully placed for his benefit, not Hutch's.

The kitchen, living room, and hallway had been lined with recessed lighting before they moved in and the bedroom followed not long after. The subsequent lighting additions had been symptomatic of another time, of other deep-seeded fears, and different goals. Hutch— _his_ Hutch—had installed them out sympathy, worry, and, perhaps, a little guilt. He had wanted to help, to ease the pain of the past in the only way he was certain he could. And though Starsky had been afraid of Hutch back then, it had been a different fear. Equally irrational and irrepressible, it had been born from bruised trust, yet, it had been easier to contend with somehow. Back then, he hadn't harbored a repressed belief—knowledge—that Hutch was monster, only a power mixture of anger and fear, unavoidable emotions that came with the knowledge that Hutch had made a terrible—likely, eventually, forgivable—mistake.

Oozing from his stinging scar, blood tricked down his index finger at a startling rate. Failing to absorb into his skin, droplets trailed over his hand and wrist before dropping to splatter on the floor.

"Damn it," he whispered. Echoing through the hallway, the worried words sounded hollow to his ears as he pulled his fingers away from his protesting wound, wiping them haphazardly on the thigh of his jeans, leaving dark crimson streaks behind. "Shit," he added, his eyes moving restlessly, as he heard a telltale jingle in the distance, a swift warning that his statement hadn't gone unheard. Dabbing his knuckles helplessly at over his blood covered scar, he registered a swift clicking on the hardwood floors as he was approached.

Head bowed, tail wagging apprehensively, Lucky's greeting, though passive, was predictable. Briefly, sniffing the blood droplets on the hardwood floor, he abandoned them quickly, rubbing his body against Starsky's legs to invite a few healthy pats.

"Hey, kid," Starsky said weakly. Anxious to appease the dog, he ran his hands over Lucky's head in a loving manner. "How's it going?"

Lucky yawned in reply. The ID tags on his collar jingled as he bobbed his head lazily, inviting Starsky to continue his gentle movements.

Staring hesitantly at the light filtering through the doorway of the living room, Starsky relished the comfort of the dog's soft fur, hopelessly hoping that this moment could last forever. Who knew what would become of tonight, or what would happen when he was finally faced with the Hutch who was hiding in the depths of the apartment.

"I'm not crazy," he said gruffly, the terse statement igniting the resolve that had been dampened by his unsettling trek up the stairs. "He's the monster, not me. I don't have anything to hide. I'm not the one—" Glancing at Lucky, he gasped. "Oh, _shit_."

Abruptly pulling his hands back, he held them high and pressed his wet fingertips together, his face sunken with distress. Though undamaged, his hands were dripping in blood. Seeping from his fingertips, the crimson liquid slid an at alarming rate, coating his hands, running past his wrists to his elbows before falling on the floor in a steady stream of solid taps. It was too much blood to have originated from his cheek, too much blood to be ignored.

Standing before him, Lucky seemed confused by his sudden distress. Tilting his head curiously, he remained unaffected by the blood. Gaping at him, Starsky was overcome by fear. The Dalmatian was marked with the smallest amount of blood, telltale streaks that he had unknowingly transported to rest upon the crown on his head. But absorbing into the stark-white fur, the blood looked wet, dark, and malign. It was too easy to imagine the blood covering his hands had seeped from his beloved dog's fragile skin, and for one horrible moment he was overcome by a startling image—a haunting premonition—a very different version of his four-legged best friend: Lips curling dangerously over sharp teeth, Lucky growled deeply. Fresh blood covered him, oozing down his body to saturate every inch of white fur and black spots.

"No." Captive the vision, Starsky stepped around Lucky and turned in place, backing toward the living room at slow careful pace. "I didn't do that," he added, his words composed of thick breaths as the dog's growling intensified. "I wouldn't do that, Lucky. I would _never ever_ —"

Barking viciously, Lucky lunged, and Starsky jumped backwards, losing his footing as he toppled to lay on his stomach on the hard living room floor. Wind knocked from his chest, he winced painfully, gasping as his throbbing lungs refused to allow him to inhale normal breaths. Scrambling to seated position he wrapped his arms around his center, struggling to reconcile Lucky's thunderous aggressiveness seconds before and the sudden unsettling stillness of the living room. Ears ringing senselessly, he felt overcome by panic. What had spurred the Dalmatian's startling behavior? What horrific event had left him covered in blood?

Peering into the hallway, he inhaled a shocked breath. Sitting patiently in the middle of the passage, Lucky's eyes sparkled with confusion. His fur was clean and unmarked, unblemished without even the slightest hint of blood.

"No." Looking at his hands, Starsky found them clean. Holding them up, he inspected them closely, then rubbed them together, trying to deny their spotlessness. There was no blood. How could there be no blood? He had seen it—he had _felt_ it trickling from his fingertips only moments ago.

Fingering his scar, his stomach lurched and he fought the crippling urge to cry. The scar was dry and untouched, hidden safely beneath his beard. There was no blood; there had never been any blood, not marking his hands or covering Lucky's body. The liquid had existed only in his head.

"I'm not crazy," he said, his voice quiet and taxed, though he was beginning to have doubts. His memory felt fragmented, composed of cloudy non-contextual snippets peppered with the blank spaces of memories that didn't exist at all. But his questions remained, as did the few solid details he was sure of—facts he was no longer certain confirmed the truth he believed so fervently.

He had seen invisible blood on his hands, had imagined a vicious version of Lucky who had chased him into the room. He had found dead felons and formed a friendship with one in his dreams.

What if Huggy was right? What if _everyone_ else was right and _he_ was wrong?

"No," he said firmly, holding on to what certainty he could. He wasn't crazy; Hutch was a monster—he was an imposter. He was dangerous, and he needed to be stopped, but from doing what, Starsky didn't know.

He didn't have solid recollections of a lot of things. He couldn't remember what had made him want to his job back so badly, or what had happened to facilitate Blaine's willingness to allow his return. He couldn't recall if Hutch had been for the decision or against it—if he had been his greatest supporter or adversary.

There had been blood on his hands and now there wasn't. What had happen to put it there?

Approaching him warily, Lucky nuzzled his shoulder and fondly licked his scar covered cheek, seemingly offering Starsky what comfort little he could. His peaceful presence seemed to say: _You're not alone; I am here. I am right beside you for whatever needs to happen next._

But Starsky didn't know what needed to happen next. Clinging to Lucky, he clutched his fur in-between his fingers, desperately hoping the familiar sensation would be enough to ground him in place. He wasn't crazy; he couldn't be—there were so many other things he'd rather be than that. He hated himself for being so unsure and afraid—for being so entirely incapable of moving his body from where he crouched, frozen in place. He didn't know what was holding him there, whether it was his fear or some unseen force—the invisible power of the moment or the impending threat of seeing Hutch again.

No, not Hutch—he reminded himself. This was someone else, something else—something vicious and evil, something crafty, avoidant, and absent.

The living area was well-lit, silent, and empty, flowing seamlessly into the dim, open kitchen. The counters were well-kept, clean as usual, but Jack Mitchell's overpriced bottle of Glengoyne was sitting next to an empty ice tray on the edge of the timber island. The cap had been sealed the last time Starsky recalled seeing it, sitting unopened next to 12 pack of beer on top of the fridge. He didn't understand why it had been left how it was. His Hutch didn't drink hard alcohol and Mitchell was dead.

" _Drinking that stuff is like swallowing bullets_ ," Hutch had said once. " _It disgusting. It burns and lights my brain on fire, makes me think of things better left alone._ "

He hadn't thought much of the confession at the time but now Starsky couldn't help but wonder what kind of memories the dark liquid woke. Vicious recollections of his Uncle Kenneth, his spiteful mother, or his condemning father?

"I don't want to know," Starsky whispered, the admission churning his stomach, filling him with both relief and guilt. He was relieved because the words were honest—a small snippet of the truth he was trying to deny—yet, he felt guilty because there was so much he still didn't know about his Hutch that he certain he never wanted to.

He knew hints of the brutality Hutch had suffered at the hands of his uncle; he had heard loose admissions of the emotional neglect and crippling pressures he had been forced to endure throughout the remainder of his youth. But that wasn't the same as hearing the truth from Hutch. It wasn't the same as being privy to the raw residual pain of such a thing. A part of him had never wanted Hutch to tell him the truth about his brutal childhood; he hadn't wanted to be expected to absorb and cope with ruthless pain he knew would accompany being privy to such a thing.

How do you began to accept that someone you love was treated in such a terrible way? How do you live with the horrific details of vicious events knowing there was nothing you could ever do to change the events or soften the pain of what taken place?

 _His father was never confident Hutch could live a normal life,_ the memory of Huntley's telling statement assaulted Starsky's ears, seemingly echoing through the empty apartment. _He seemed to be of the opinion that Hutch was capable of more evil than any of us could imagine._

Pulling himself from the floor, Starsky clenched his hands as his sides. He didn't want to believe what he did. He didn't want to agree with Richard Hutchinson in thinking that Hutch was capable of anything evil. Moving numbly to the island, he reached for the Glengoyne and clutched the bottle to his chest, setting his eyes on the darkness lurking beyond the kitchen window. He didn't want to think anything he did; he just wanted his life back.

 _The reporter called Hutch a murder, you know,_ bits of Baker's snide statements came rushing back, adding to his apprehension. _He's as stoic and mysterious as ever,_ _spends a whole lot of time in the basement, doesn't come up for hours._

A shiver crawled up Starsky's spine as he thought of the basement. What was Hutch doing down there? What was he containing in its dank depths? Why didn't he want anyone to privy to what was lingering its darkness?

Whining, Lucky nudged his legs, swaying his body slightly and jarring his gaze away from the window and settling it elsewhere. Mouth agape, the bottle slipped from Starsky's hands, landing hard on the kitchen island with explosive force. He flinched and Lucky jumped as the abrasive sound echoed through the room, leaving a cluster of negative energy in its wake.

Taped predominantly on the face of the stainless-steel refrigerator doors were the pictures he had found in Hutch's wallet. Tattered, black and white images each depicting an image of a single man standing sternly in the middle of an empty, barren field, with emotionless faces and glistening eyes. Two of them were of old men Starsky didn't recognize, but the third filled him with panic and crippling dread.

"No." Taking a shocked step back, he nearly tripped over Lucky as the dog struggled move out of the way. "No, that's impossible," he whispered. "That _can't_ be.

But somehow it was. The picture of Simon Marcus he had torn up was now whole, carefully placed in the middle of the other two.

"So, you finally decided to come home, huh?"

Gasping, Starsky turned in place, his heartbeat quickening as he found Hutch standing paces away. Patches of gray dust clung to his t-shirt and pants and his work boots were smeared with dried mud speckles. Crossing his arms, he assessed Starsky coolly.

"I'm not crazy," Starsky croaked, pointing his index finger at the offending pictures.

"Of course you're not," Hutch said. "But we do need to talk about what been happening lately."

Fearful goosebumps prickling his skin, Starsky shook his head. "No," he whispered, his voice thick with fear. There were so many things he wanted to say—so many horrendous accusations he had intended to spew the moment he walked through the door—but finally faced with the opportunity he was overcome with the desire to run. Dread weighed down his body, a heavy inescapable sensation that left him unable to move. He didn't want be here. He didn't want to have this conversation anymore. He should have taken Blaine's advice—he should have run and never looked back.

"Yes, we do," Hutch insisted. "I'd ask you how your day was, but I get the impression I already know more than you intend on ever telling me."

Starsky ground his jaw. What was the point of providing accounts of events that this version of Hutch was destined to already know?

"Huggy called me," Hutch continued. "What were you thinking throwing a temper tantrum like that? Tossing your pills was a terrible thing to do. How do you plan to sleep tonight or make it through tomorrow or the day after that?"

"I'll survive," Starsky said, the words sounding flat and weak.

"Yeah, but what about the rest of us? You picked a terrible day for such a public scene; The Pits has security cameras, that footage can be used against you."

"For what?"

"Evidence of threatening, irrational behavior for starters, or whatever anyone wants to accuse you of. Blaine pulled you from the car; you are at the center of a murder investigation."

"That's a lie. I'm out of the car but I didn't do anything. Nobody actually thinks I did anything."

"You don't _think_ you did anything," Hutch corrected. "But there is a difference between what you think and what you know. And appears that your certainty isn't shared by your superiors or peers. Whitley came by this afternoon, he had Dobey with him. They questioned me and confiscated your gun."

" _What_?" Starsky breathed, hardly comprehending the words. "Why would they do that? Why would Whitley be with Dobey?"

"Oh, come on. You must know why. You've been partners with the guy for months. You text each other every day. There is no way you don't know why he and Dobey would be spending time together." Face frozen with seriousness, Hutch's lips formed a tired line.

"Know what?"

"Dobey's claimed Whitley, he wants him to be a part of his team. The kid is going to a Zebra, that is, if passes initiation and shows enough promise on this serial case."

Eyes widening, Starsky's stomach flipped, his mind awake with horror. "How do _you_ know they're looking for a serial killer? They're not releasing that information to the public."

"Now is not the time to be fixating on the wrong thing," Hutch said firmly. "I know you had a very painful day, and I know you're afraid, but you have to ignore all that for a second and listen to me. It's the only way to survive what is really going on—"

"I don't have to do anything you tell me to! You're a fucking liar, and a monster," Starsky screamed hysterically. Hutch took a step forward and he took a step back, balling his trembling fists at his sides. "You stay away from me! Where's Hutch? What the hell did you do with him?"

"There is only one Hutch, David, and that's me."

"You're a liar. You're just saying this to trick me…!"

"I'm not."

"… To make me second-guess what I know! But I know the truth, and I'm not afraid to admit it now!"

"I am begging you to ignore your fear and listen to me."

"Hutch would never beg me for anything!" Starsky exclaimed. " _Never_. Not once did he ever allow himself to be weaker than me. He doesn't need me the way I need him."

"That's not true."

"It is! He's not any damn good at needing anyone or telling the truth!"

"Then what's the difference between us?" Hutch asked. "If he couldn't tell the truth and you think I'm lying then what makes me different from the man you don't think I am?"

"You're trying to confuse me," Starsky whispered. He refused to consider the question for fear of the answer he would glean.

He wasn't crazy and Hutch was monster, the pictures on the refrigerator were proof that, weren't they? As was Hutch's secrecy, his obsession with the basement and his startling drunken admission the night before. He had known things and spoken about fate the way Simon Marcus once had—he had talked about Jack Mitchell's death as though it was preventable. He had talked about Starsky's mental instability—the voices he had once heard—as though they had been healed.

"I'm not trying to confuse you," Hutch said. Holding his hands up in surrender, he closed the gap between them with slow careful strides. "I have never tried to confuse you. Not since Simon Marcus's death have I ever lied to you. The only thing I have done is tried to help you."

"Who are you?" Starsky whispered. He took a step back, then another and another, panic building his chest as Hutch matched his strides. He only stopped retreating when his back hit the side of the kitchen island. The contact was startling and stinging; grimacing painfully, he inhaled a taxed breath as Hutch stopped, leaving mere inches between their chests.

"You know who I am. I'm Hutch."

"What do you want from me?"

"I only want you to see the truth."

"About you?"

"About yourself."

"Where is my Hutch?"

"Listen to me," Hutch said carefully. "The version of me you're clinging to was weak and fearful. Bound to the past, I was terrified of the future and the slightest glimmer of truth, of the past, that anyone hinted they knew. I wasn't a real person back then. But I've changed and grown. I'm not the same as I once was, but I'm not an imposture. It's ridiculous to think such a contrived thing."

"That's a lie! Where is Hutch? What did you do with him?"

"Nothing."

"Did you do to him what you did to Jack?"

"I am the only Hutch that exists, and I am right _here_ in front of you. Jack is dead; his death has nothing to do with what you believe or don't believe about me."

"Then why won't you tell me how he died?" Starsky demanded, his voice shrill as he lifted his hands and attempted to push Hutch away.

Hutch stood strong, tall and immobile, clenching his wrists in a fierce and powerful grip. Patience fading, his demeanor shifted in an instant. "I'm surprised you care so much about the details of Jack's death," he said, his voice cutting, his expression dark. "You never gave him this much consideration in life."

"I didn't hate him," Starsky spat, writhing his body and twisting his arms in effort to free himself. "Let me go!"

"You didn't like Jack," Hutch said matter-of-factly. He squeezed Starsky's wrists impossibly tight, then abruptly let go. "Why can't you admit the truth?"

"Yeah, well, I don't like you much, either."

"You hated Jack."

"I just said I _didn't_ hate him!" Starsky exploded.

"Which means what, exactly?" Hutch scoffed, his face set with anger. "That you didn't want him living in your house but you didn't want him dead? Oh, I know, it means you wanted him to whisper the answers to questions you didn't have the courage to ask me, but you didn't want to live with the guilt of knowing what an underhanded person you really are."

"That's not true," Starsky said, though he was unnerved by the words. He may not have liked Mitchell but he didn't want him dead. He had probed him for information about Hutch but that didn't mean he wanted to be his friend.

"Of course it is. You see, I'm still Hutch, but that doesn't mean that I haven't changed. You can't hide anything from me. There is nothing about you that I don't already know. That's the thing about the truth, David, it always finds a voice and a way to into the ears of the people you want it to remain hidden from. You can't stop what fate wants and you can't contend with time. You were jealous of Jack. You hated that he knew me when I was a child, that he was privy to everything that I tried so hard to hide from you. You hated him and you're afraid of me. You think I'm a monster. Well, I really hate to break it to you, but you're hardly the first person who ever believed that. It really is too bad that you never had the chance to meet my father, the two of you would have had a lot to talk about. He thought I was monster, too. I'm sure he would have been delighted to hear your fascinating point-of-view on the subject."

"I'm nothing like Hutch's father," Starsky insisted. "I would _never_ —"

"Never what? Hold me hostage for mistakes I can't change? Hate me for the past while insisting that you don't? Call me a monster while violently and loudly morning the loss of who I used to be?"

Mouth snapping shut, Starsky stared at the floor, guilt churning his stomach. Anger vanishing, he was overcome by grief; he was helpless to deny the correlations between Richard Hutchinson's behavior and his own.

"I'm sorry that everything happened the way that it did," Hutch continued, his voice softening. "But clinging to the way things used to be—the person _I_ used to be—isn't going to change what is in front of you now."

"I don't want to see it," Starsky admitted, his voice thick. "I just want my life back."

"You can't have it back. Too much time has passed, too many things have happened to allow us to be who we once were. You have to stop fighting the change that surrounds you, David. You have to have to courage to cease avoiding what you know about me. You must go forward because there is no going back."

"But I _want_ to go back!"

"You can't," Hutch assured. "You need to stop ignoring what you know and antagonizing fate. She is angry enough at you as it is. Do you think that the connection between you and those dead men is random? Do you actually think you can survive the speculation and doubt fate was careful to insure your behavior implanted into people's minds? Everything is as she intends it to be. Fight her and she only make things worse. Reject her power and she will make you suffer in the most terrible of ways. Simon Marcus told you to be mindful of your fears because fate always has a way of making them worse. She sees every aspect of your deeply-seeded pain; she is privy to even the most hidden of your fears. She allows me to see them too. But the difference between her and I is that I will always do what I can to protect you, whereas she won't hesitate to use your past, your pain, or your fear as ammunition to destroy you if she deems fit."

Starsky flinched as Hutch extended his index finger, trailing it purposefully over the scar marking his cheek. "Scars are interesting, aren't they?" he asked. "They fade with time, but they're always there. You can ignore their presence, try to conceal them beneath other things, but they never really go away. Their pain defines you; they change you in a way that can never be explained; they fill you with fear and leave you grappling with the weight of all the painful events of the past you can't change." He smiled, lips curling over sharp teeth. "You probably don't remember how you got this scar, but I do. You probably don't understand why so many others have been burdened with the same mark, but in time you will."

"Who are you?" Starsky asked softly, bewildered by the sensation Hutch's fingertip was awakening. Warm and tingling, his scar felt different. The puckered white line of tightly healed skin seemed to loosen beneath the touch. And for the first time since the mark had appeared on his body, his brain registered the feeling of someone caressing the damaged nerves. "How can you stand there and talk about things the way you do?"

"I already told you who I am. If you would spend less time talking in circles and clinging to contrived theories you'd remember what you've known all along. You know exactly who I am, who I've been, and who I've become. But the real question is this: Who are you?"

"I know who I am."

"No, you don't," Hutch chuckled. Removing his finger, he evaluated Starsky carefully. "You say you know, but you don't, not really. Your hands are bloody and you have no idea why."

Face contorting dreadfully, Starsky lifted his hands and held them at eyelevel. "There isn't any blood," he said, his tone forced, as he smoothed his thumbs over his clean fingertips. _There was blood_ , the thought, almost absently. _But it's disappeared now. And Lucky was angry, frightened, and feral, but he's okay now, too._

"Just because you can't see it now doesn't mean it was never there," Hutch countered calmly. "It doesn't mean it won't return in the future to assault you with its truth. You know, I saw blood on my hands once. It was invisible to everyone else but I knew it existed and what I had done to place it there." Turning, Hutch looked at Lucky, smiling as the hair on the dog's back sprung to attention and he emitted a low warning growl. "He's afraid of me," he scoffed, his face contorting with something akin to awe. "Twice I saved him, once from living his life as a stray on the street, and then from the attic of the Marcus Compound. He has seen me for who I really am, he still has the audacity to growl at me."

"Lucky was never at the Marcus Compound," Starsky protested.

Chewing on his bottom lip, Hutch looked between Starsky and the dog, seemingly wanting to say something, but choosing to remain quiet, instead.

"Was he?" Starsky pressed, suddenly uncertain of himself and all the things he thought he knew.

His heart ached at the thought of gentle, loyal Lucky having ever spent a second on the property that had left them all so shattered. But little-by-little, standing in front of this version of Hutch, speaking to him in the same manner he had once spoke to Simon Marcus, he felt his fear shift. It ebbed quickly, transforming to into something between sorrow and concern. Though he knew this man wasn't his Hutch—at least not in the way Starsky liked to remember him—he wasn't a stranger either. He wasn't as golden as he used to appear but he was familiar. Blond and tall, he was a maddening combination of infuriating and comforting; his complexion was right but his eyes were all wrong. Their deep depths reflected an all-too-familiar gleam. A sparking hint of something dark—something sinister.

How could this Hutch know any of the things he claimed to? How could he talk about fate the way Marcus once had? And what was the price attached to being privy to such things? Where had Hutch been and what had he done? What kind of horrors had he invited into their lives?

"How much don't I know about that time?" Starsky whispered numbly, the question escaping almost unconsciously.

"What time?"

"When Hutch disappeared. The time between when he left and you returned."

"David, we've already been through this," Hutch said patiently. "I am the same Hutch who left and then came back."

"But you're not. You can't stand there and tell me you are when I know you're not."

"Are you the same as you were before?"

"Well, no."

"But you expect me to remain unchanged, unaffected by everything fate has put before us?"

"What do you know about fate?"

"More than I could possibly tell you. My knowledge would span lifetimes; it's more than any one man knows." Hutch tilted his head thoughtfully. "Or probably should." Eyes glistening, he offered Starsky his hands. "Don't be afraid of me," he rumbled. "Don't seek easy solutions, temporary stays in hospital rooms or medications, in an effort to soothe and deny what you don't want to accept. Stay here with me. Right now, in this moment, pick me over your fear. We aren't how we once were but we could be good again. After all, there's blood on your hands, too. If you please fate she will protect you; anger her and she will throw you to a pack of carnivorous wolves."

"I'm not afraid of you," Starsky said, though he was. He didn't want to take his hands. He was terrified that if he touched him now there would be no going back.

"Oh, sweetheart, there never was any going back. You knew that before and it's time you realized it again. The only question that remains is what are you going to do now? Are you going to hide behind another mental collapse or are you finally going to be strong enough to accept what you see in front of you?"

Starsky didn't want to hear the words that were flowing effortlessly from Hutch's mouth. He didn't want to accept that the man standing in front of him—looking too familiar, too understanding, and too gentle—was his Hutch. But his mind was weighted, his body exhausted from the tumultuous day.

Everyone else thought he was crazy or well-on-his-way to another breakdown, and this Hutch didn't. Standing before him, this Hutch wasn't denying his fears, and though he wasn't confirming them either, he wasn't asking him to be anything he wasn't. He wasn't telling him to lie or scolding him for voicing his obstinate opinion. Instead, he was accepting him. And suddenly, Starsky struggled to justify denying this Hutch the same benevolence.

He gasped as he grasped Hutch's hands. The contact was foreign but familiar; it filled his heart, warmed his skin, and soothed his frantic mind. He felt oddly at peace. Calm, comforted, detached in the most pleasurable way. Suddenly, he overcome by the truth: his Hutch left and then he had come back. No one—nothing—had returned in his place, rather, he had returned a changed man.

Hutch had changed—something had changed him deep inside—leaving his demeanor patient and detached, allowing him to be all knowing, and liberating him from the pain of his past. There was no distinction between this Hutch and his Hutch; they were one in the same. It was Starsky who had refused to see, refused to accept the truth, allowing the image of the Hutch he had once known meld into the pain of the past and all-but-disappear into the depths of his confusion and dread. But in this moment, Starsky saw him for who he really was; he was his Hutch again—his love was infinite, his strength unbounded, his touch bolstering and healing.

Nose twitching, Starsky reached for his scar; tracing his cheek, his fingertip was met with nothing but dark stubbly hairs flowing seamlessly into his beard. The scar was gone; it was as though it had never existed. "Hutch, what did you do?" he asked. "What the hell did you do to make yourself like this?"

"Nothing that can ever be taken back, and nothing I would want to if given the chance." Hutch grinned in self-satisfied way, his eyes glistening with pure joy. "Are you afraid of me?"

"No," Starsky breathed. Intoxicated by the moment, the admission easy; he had no control over his statements, no gatekeeper preventing his thoughts from becoming words. "But I'm terrified of myself. What if I'm imaging all of this? What if all of this is nothing more than vivid hallucination? I can't be crazy."

"And why not?" Hutch asked, lovingly carding his fingers through Starsky's dark hair. "There are a million more terrifying things you could be required to endure in life than that."

Though he was calm—comfortably captive to the man standing in front of him. Content, for the moment, to seek respite in the revitalizing power of Hutch's touch.—Starsky couldn't help the voice emerging from the depths of his mind: _Run,_ the memory of Blaine's words echoed insistently. _You leave as fast as you can_ ; _you run the other way._

TBC


	53. Chapter Fifty-Three

Starsky slept fitfully. Covers twisted over restless legs, he tossed and turned, falling into light slumber only to be woken minutes later.

The familiar nightlight shined predominately on the wall opposite the bed, illuminating just enough area to make him nervous. The room was darker than usual; unsettling shadows danced in the corners, menacing, indistinguishable intruders that he was unprepared face—or acknowledge the existence of.

Just past three a.m., Hutch's side of the bed was empty, not an uncharacteristic occurrence as of late, though this night was decidedly different from any others Starsky could recall. Hutch had neither bothered to crawl into bed to feign sleep until the early hours of morning, nor had he justified his decision for leaving Starsky to contend with the night alone in a satisfactory manner.

"Where are you going?" Starsky had asked. Sitting upright in bed he clutched the lapels of Hutch's faded flannel shirt, forcing his husband to lean over and sit nearly on top of him. "You asked me to stay with you, why aren't staying with me?"

"Sweetheart," Hutch had said. Carefully freeing himself from Starsky's frantic grasp, he held his hands tightly in his own. "I have things to do."

"You're running to that fucking basement, aren't you?" Starsky accused worriedly. He was unprepared to oppose the feelings he knew would overpower him if Hutch left the room. He was unwilling to consider the doubts he knew would engulf him in his absence. This Hutch really was his Hutch—but he was different, too. He knew things; his touch was healing, grounding, and comforting, and faced with having to spend the night with or without him, Starsky was preparing to demand the former. He wasn't ready to have his certainty stripped from him, chipped away by another dream—or worse, nightmare.

"I am going where I am needed in this moment," Hutch countered matter-of-factly.

"But I need you _here_."

"You think you do, but you do not. You are strong, David, and brave; you would not have made it this far if you weren't. There is no reason for you to fear the darkness of night, not now. Not after the conversation we had, not after you finally embraced the truth you've known about me all along."

Starsky frowned. He hadn't embraced anything; he had merely acknowledge the truth about the man before him. "What if things changed when you're gone?" he asked quietly. "I can't be crazy, Hutch."

"You are not crazy."

"But what if I am?" Starsky insisted madly. "I tossed my pills at Huggy's, remember? What if I can't sleep without them? What if—?" he hesitated, unable to voice his frantic fear. What if the medication had been keeping him stable? What if its presence in his body had been the only thing separating his reality from his mother's?

"You are not crazy," Hutch affirmed. "You are the sanest person I know. You never really needed the pills, at least not to treat the symptoms for which they were prescribed. You do not suffer from the same mental illness as your mother; you do not suffer from any mental illness at all. You spent a week in the depths of the Marcus Compound captive to fate and her power. You know that real evil exists in the world; it's touched you, and you've seen it. But there are far too many others that have not; they cannot accept the truth of what you know. They are not privy to the dread attached to the knowledge that darkness has power; that it is to be respected and occasionally feared. It is easier to label you, to silence your fear with medication than it is to tolerate being privy to the unsettling truth. But you have nothing to worry about, not tonight. Maybe not ever if you stop fighting fate's wishes for you."

"But I don't even know what they are! And there's plenty to fear in here! I hate this bedroom; I hate this apartment! Every inch of it is filled with darkness and dread, and I still don't know what happened to you. What you did, how Jack died, or even what you're hiding in the basement!"

Brows furrowing, Hutch looked at him, a hint of sadness glistening in eyes. "David," he said, nearly a minute later, settling his hands on Starsky's shoulders. "There are some things in this world that people are destined never to know or understand. My absence is one of those things, the basement is another. I need you to promise me that you will never go down there."

"Why?"

"Because I can no longer protect you if you do."

"Why not?"

Shaking his head, Hutch leaned forward and placed a kiss on Starsky's forehead. "Promise me."

Stunned by the sudden calmness enveloping his body, Starsky nodded dumbly. Beginning beneath the skin Hutch had kissed, it traveled down his extremities in a rapid rate, leaving his body feeling weightless and his mind saturated by tranquility and peace.

"Good." Smiling approvingly, Hutch stood; pulling up the covers, he tucked Starsky in tightly. "Sleep. In the morning, I'll make breakfast and you can make coffee, just like the old days."

Huddling obediently into the plush bed, Starsky watched Hutch move around the room, turning the nightlight on before striding to the doorway, switching off the overhead lighting and preparing to leave the room. Starsky was untroubled, overcome by contentment. But, even so, a disturbing question remained, and despite his solace, he couldn't help giving a voice to words he wanted nothing more than to silence, instead. "Hutch, wait."

Lingering in the doorway, Hutch turned in place. His expression was hidden by the darkness of the bedroom, his body illuminated in an eerie fashion, outlined by the muted recessed lighting of the hallway.

Biting his bottom lip, Starsky hesitated painfully, unnerved by everything he couldn't see. A flicker of fearful dread rolled in the depths of his stomach; he couldn't see Hutch's eyes or distinguish his expression, and he struggled to hold on to the all-encompassing stillness that had shielded him only moments before. But, still, his demanding question refused to be stifled, or ignored and buried in the depths of his mind.

"What happened to Jack?"

Standing immobile, Hutch didn't answer. Several long quiet moments passed as, captive to the sound of his own breath, Starsky became certain that he had crossed some kind of invisible line, that he had foolishly asked a question that they both knew would never be answered—that Hutch couldn't answer.

"I'm sorry," Starsky said. "I didn't mean—"

"He angered fate," Hutch said, his voice firm and matter-of-fact. "Captive to foolishness, he refused to abide by the only instruction that was keeping him alive."

"Which was what?"

"He did not stay out of the basement."

Pressing his hands to his ears, Starsky groaned, pushing the unsettling memory to the back of his mind as he stared absently at the bedroom ceiling. The security he had felt in Hutch's presence faded in his absence; it was slowly stripped away by the darkness seeping into the room. Though Hutch had answered the question, in doing so he had only awakened more fear. What was going on in the basement? What was being contained behind the locks that had been placed not to keep someone out, rather to keep something in?

Laying on the end of the bed, nestled disgruntledly on top of a discarded blanket, Lucky's brows twitched and his eyes carefully cased the room. He shared Starsky's discomfort, it seemed, as the dog had yet to give into the allure of sleep. The Dalmatian appeared to be carefully watching the unseen movements of something lingering in the shadows.

Leaning upright, supporting his weight on his elbows, Starsky's face contorted worriedly as he followed the dog's wayward gaze. He couldn't see anything, but he knew that something was there; he could feel it, an all-too-familiar evil presence. Something was hiding in the darkness of the room. Goosebumps prickling his skin, he forced himself to lay back down, closing his eyes as he exhaled a hearty breath and willed his heart to cease its rapid beat. Hutch was right: tossing his pills was a terrible thing to do; now, there were few things he wouldn't trade in order to obtain a sleeping pill—something to force him into deep slumber until the sun began ascending into the morning sky, something to ease the worry threatening to engulf him.

 _You have nothing to worry about, not tonight. Maybe not ever, if you stop fighting fate's wishes for you_. Hutch's calm words echoed through his mind, leaving his chest dense with terror. He didn't know what fate's wishes for him were, what he had done to fight them, or even how he could begin to comply with what she wanted. But he knew he didn't want to face her again. The time he had spent captive to her on the Marcus Compound had been enough.

 _Did she show herself to you?_ Simon Marcus's aged statement came rushing back, intermixing dreadfully with Hutch's earlier assertion: _You have blood on your hands and you have no idea why._ He was certain he hadn't seen fate—not since she had posed as Hutch in the bunker—but he was unsure of why he had seen blood marking his hands, or what he would have done to put it there. There were gaps in his memory; too much time had passed while he was captive to confusion and dread, and avoidance and fear. He had spent too much time running from the truth in front of him to pay attention anything else.

Had he done something regrettable or had he turned a blind eye while someone else had? Who had sent the incriminating text message to Whitley, and what had led him to the bodies of the other felons?

For moment, he wondered if this was how Hutch had felt, years ago, when he had finally awoken from whatever spell he had been captive to and found his hands covered in invisible blood and the beach house empty. If the almost solid fear he felt settling in his chest now, threatening to choke him with dread, was the same horrific sensation Hutch had experienced back then? If Hutch had been crippled by what he didn't remember, his heart weighted by fleeting indications and confounding clues of the horrific thing he had done.

Starsky jumped as Lucky emitted a low warning growl, then sprang from the bed as he saw the long curtains covering the window shift on their own.

"Okay. Shhh, Lucky, it's okay," he whispered, though he knew it wasn't. They weren't alone in the room—he had never really been alone since before, captive to fate's spell, Hutch had assaulted him at the beach house and delivered him to the Marcus Compound. Grabbing his iPhone from the nightstand he grasped Lucky's collar, tugging the dog toward the safety of the master bathroom. "Come on, kid. There's nothing you can do about this. Save your energy for things you can change."

Xx

Back pressed against the side of the bathtub, Starsky clenched his iPhone tightly and watched Lucky restlessly pace the confines of the bathroom. He wanted to comfort the dog, but was helpless to find the right words and unwilling to pacify the Dalmatian with lies.

"Come here," he coaxed gently, smiling comfortingly and reaching out an inviting hand. Lucky hesitated, looking apprehensively between his hand and the door. "Come on, pal."

Whining, Lucky remained hesitant, his dark eyes locked on the door. Extending a paw, he scratched it in a determined manner, the motion a demanding requested to be allowed to exit their claustrophobic confines.

"I'm not letting you go out there."

Blinking, Lucky stared him. Tilting his head inquisitively, he seemed to be prompting Starsky to summon the courage to open the door.

"I'm not going out there, either," Starsky said quietly. Unnerved by Lucky's determination, he chewed on his bottom lip, suddenly needing to justify his reasoning for locking them in the room. "Don't you know there's something out there? I don't want to be around it, and I'm not unlocking that door until either sunrise or Hutch comes back, whichever happens first. Though, right now, I'm betting on sunrise."

Unlocking his phone, he checked his text messages for what felt like the millionth time. He had texted Hutch, requesting he come upstairs and rescue them from whatever was lurking in the darkness beyond the door. The message remained unanswered, either unseen or ignored, and scrolling through his other contacts, he found himself absently pondering who else he could call. Brows furrowing, he hesitated, his finger hovering over Uncle Al's contact information. And for a moment, he wondered what it would be like if he reached out to him, requesting he rush over and extricate him and Lucky from the threat of the apartment and deliver them to the safety of his childhood home.

Exhaling a taxed breath, he locked the phone and tossed it in-between his knees. Even if Uncle Al came to help, he wouldn't be able to, and his presence would be more hindering than helpful, as Starsky would be required to explain what had led to his precarious position in the bathroom. A phone call now would be damaging—damning—and he refused to worry his aunt and uncle in such a way—not again. Captive to bouts of turbulent hysteria, he had disrupted their lives enough.

Wrapping his arms around his legs, he planted his chin on his knees, overcome with vivid images of another time—not so long ago—when Al had liberated him from this very room. That had been the beginning of his last meltdown—or had it been the end? It had taken Al hours to coax him out of the bathroom and into clean clothes. Starsky couldn't remember now what he had worn but he remembered how stifling and foreign the material had felt. He remembered the pain in Al's eyes and the words that he had said, his voice tight with emotion as he held him close to his chest. _"It's gonna be okay, kiddo. You're going to be just fine."_

But it wasn't going to be okay—they had known that then and they all knew it now.

Al had spoken the words moments before entrusting Starsky into Hutch's care, and Hutch had taken him to the emergency room, as he had done so many times before. That had been his last 72 hour hold, and watching Lucky resume his restless pacing, Starsky was determined that it would be his _last_.

What was happening was affecting all them. A darkness existed—an evil—, right in the confines of their home. It wasn't right to abandon Lucky, to leave him to contend with the darkness alone in order to numb himself once again into doubting the truth.

 _Stay with me._ Starsky shuttered as he was overcome by Hutch's words, the closest to a plea he had heard from the man in years. With all the things Hutch knew, didn't he understand that his request was loaded and slanted in his favor? Even if Starsky wanted to leave, he couldn't; he had already promised himself he was finished running away.

 _Pick me over your fear_ , the memory of Hutch's words whispered. _We aren't how we once were but we could be good again. After all, there's blood on your hands, too._

Starsky looked at his hands. Though he wasn't sure what he expected to see, it wasn't what he saw. They provided no answers; he gleaned no new information from their cleanliness. They had been covered with blood and now they were not, but he had no concept of what had happened to make them that way.

He groaned as he stood and moved to the sink. Intent on washing his hands and splashing water on his face, he stood unmoving instead. Eyes setting on his reflection, he was taken aback by what he saw. While he had known his scar was gone, his face was still a startling sight. Mouth hanging open, he leaned forward, decreasing the proximity between the mirror and his face, his eyes widening with disbelief.

The scar was gone. There was nothing beneath his beard—not even a hint of the mark that had once marred his cheek, sitting poorly hidden under short black hair that eternally promised to become unruly in a day or two. His face was healed; it was as though the scar had never existed.

Blinking blearily, he rubbed his palms over his face, then abandoned the motion and reached for the electric beard trimmer in the medicine cabinet. Holding it tightly, he looked between the trimmer and his reflection, hesitating for the slightest of seconds before deciding what to do.

A voltaic grinding filled the bathroom as the trimmer came to life; and Lucky watched from his post at the doorway as Starsky began to strip his face of the hair he had hid behind for so long. Slow and mechanical, his movements were purposeful but his mind was numb, his motivations for the impulsive action fragmented and scattered.

When he was done he couldn't bear the sight of his own reflection; his face was bare and unfamiliar. The scar was gone. Missing—just like the person he knew he once had been. He looked haggard, devastation glistening in his hollow eyes. He looked like a stranger, his face pillaged, sunken in by tired worry and overbearing agitation.

The time he had spent in the bunker on the Marcus Compound had shaped him. It had changed everything, just as fate had intend it to. Nothing was as it had been. It would never be because it couldn't be—not after everything that had happened, not after the inauspicious decision Hutch had made. Frozen place, staring aimlessly at his foreign reflection, Starsky became overpowered by the past.

 _"Does she show herself to you?"_ Marcus had asked. Standing in front of where Starsky lay battered and beaten on the dirty ground of the bunker, he had fondly eyed the darkest corner of the room, his eyes glistening.

Marcus had been a facilitator; the things he had known had led to a shattering chain of events, but he hadn't been one with the power. He had played his vexatious games but he wasn't the one deciding what needed to be done—who was to be taken, when, or why anything needed to happen the way it did.

 _Simon Marcus told you to be mindful of your fears_ , Hutch's fragmented statement emerged from his memory. _Fate always has a way of making them worse. She sees every aspect of your pain; she is privy to even the most hidden of your fears. She allows me to see them too. She won't hesitate to use your past, your pain, or your fear as ammunition to destroy you if she deems fit._

And, in the bunker, fate had done just that. Awakening old memories and rousing dormant fears, she had taunted Starsky with the events buried deep in his past. Torturing him with her darkness, she had stripped him of everything he once was.

"I want it back," Starsky whispered, his voice thick, his throat burning against unwanted tears. Fate had allowed Marcus certain liberties; she had allowed him know what he knew and do what had he had done. "I want it all back, every single thing I lost in that fucking bunker. I just want my life back."

 _You can't have it back,_ Hutch's voice echoed.

 _And you should be mindful of the places you seek for safety,_ the charred man chimed in. _The darkness is seeping in. Fate is closer now than she has ever been._

Face crumbling, Starsky choked on a sob, helpless to refute a single truth he had known all along: There was no way out; there would be no way out. Simon Marcus had died, but the darkness had lived. Hiding in the depths of the bunker, fate had patiently waited for someone to come—for the right moment, for the right person to stumble upon her.

 _He chose_ , the charred man's voice hissed. _Disappearing, he chose oracles over honesty; he chose nihility over responsibility; and he chose the darkness over you._

"Oh, God," Starsky whispered, his stomach churning with dread. Marcus had been a slave to fate; she had controlled his behavior; there was nothing he had done that she hadn't permitted. She had allowed Marcus to heal his body when he was the bunker, and she had allowed Hutch to mend his scar. " _No_!"

Starsky wasn't crazy, though at times he had felt helpless, out of control, overwhelmed by dread, and powerless to save himself from what his life had become. He had reached for the only power he thought he had—the only way he knew to protect himself from the truth. He had chosen psychiatric intervention, medication and sleeping pills to help him contend with the truth. He wasn't crazy—deep down, he had always known that—but he had tried hard to convince himself that he was because he didn't want to know what he knew. He didn't want see what he saw or feel what he felt.

 _You asked him to be strong when he was so weak. You asked him to burden your anger and pain when he couldn't began to contend with his own,_ the haunting words reverberated through his skull. _You have no idea what he's done. What your love for him has led him to do._

Overcome by desolation, Starsky closed his eyes. The statement was all wrong, fundamentally flawed—as it always had been and always would be. He knew what Hutch had done—deep down, he had _always_ known. He hadn't been with Hutch when freshly fired, motivated by guilt and grief, he hadn't been able to gather the courage to return to their apartment. But he could see the devastation etched in his face as he drove aimlessly around the city; he could feel his uncertainty, the deep-seeded all-encompassing grief that had led him further and further from home.

He hadn't been with Hutch when he sought respite and answers at the desolate remains of the Marcus Compound; he hadn't followed him when fate reached out, but Starsky could see him lifting the steal lid and descending the stairs of the bunker. He could hear the sound of this dress-shoes crunching against the ground as he took step after step and disappeared into darkness, his eyes searching for something he longed to see.

Starsky had known something terrible had happened the day Hutch disappeared, and he had known it the day he finally returned, dirty, scratched, smelling of death and rusty blood. The smell of him had made his stomach churn, but it was the acceptance glistening in Hutch's eyes that had awoken his fear. He had known then what he knew now, but hadn't wanted to see it; he hadn't wanted to face what it meant, or admit that there was nothing he could do to change what had been done—the horrible decision that his love had driven Hutch to make.

Slipping from his hand, the trimmer burst as it hit the bathroom floor, scattering into large pieces settling precariously at his feet. His Hutch had left and when he had returned he hadn't come back alone. He had brought the darkness with him—he had allowed fate to imbed herself into their home and lives. Laying on the floor, his iPhone lit up as a long awaited text message was received. Sinking to his knees, struggling for breath between devastated sobs, Starsky payed the message little mind.

Xx

The sun rose. Emerging from the darkness, it climbed the sky and hung peacefully over the landscape of the city.

Exiting the master bathroom, Starsky evaluated his surroundings with red, weary eyes. The bed had been made and the curtains opened, allowing the morning sunshine to illuminate the room. But neither sights were assuaging, nor was Hutch as he sat on the edge of the bed. Leaning forward, he clenched a steaming coffee mug in-between his palms, seemingly taking solace in its warmth.

"How long have you been out here?" Starsky asked, his voice hoarse, ragged from his bout of violent emotion. He lingered timidly in the bathroom doorway as Lucky pushed past him, swaying his body with excitement that dissolved in an instant. Dark eyes settling on Hutch, the Dalmatian hesitated, looking apprehensively between the two men before returning to Starsky's side. He pressed his body firmly against his legs, then sat on the floor, settling one front paw on Starsky's barefoot. The contact was grounding, and for a moment Starsky was relieved. He wasn't alone; Lucky was beside him, patiently waiting to accompany him through whatever happened next.

"You asked me to come, so I did," Hutch said simply.

"That was hours ago. You've been sitting out here all this time?"

Endlessly composed, Hutch shrugged. His body was rigid, his face expressionless and eyes gleaming as he looked Starsky up and down. "It would not have made a difference when I decided to come," he said. "You needed time to draw your own conclusions, space to come to terms with everything you know. I am sorry that my absence was so upsetting to you, that you felt the need to lock yourself in the bathroom and grieve the past. I did not heal the mark upon your face with the intention of distressing you."

"I wasn't upset," Starsky disagreed. Though he was immediately unsure why he felt the intense need to lie—to feign bravery in the face of the one person who was destined to already know the truth.

"There is no shame in weakness, David."

"I'm not ashamed."

"There is no reason to fear what you know."

"I'm not afraid."

"Yes," Hutch countered calmly. "You are."

"Oh, that's right," Starsky snorted gruffly. "I can't do or feel anything without you knowing about it." Reaching for anger he faltered, devastated grief overwhelming him, instead. He was gutted, no longer as afraid as he had once been, but he was dispirited, his heart shattered into a million pieces which floated aimlessly in his chest, threatening to suffocate him with each breath. "You know things, right?" he added. He thought he had cried himself dry in the bathroom but feeling tears fill his bloodshot eyes, he realized he was wrong. "You have things you shouldn't have, and you can do things you shouldn't be able to do. What are the cost of those things, Hutch? What the fuck did you give her so that she would make you the way you are?"

"Do not be upset. Everything is fine."

"Nothing is fine!"

"That is only your perception. If you would stop worrying about what has happened and what is to be then you would realize the truth of what I am telling you."

"How can I believe you? You don't tell the truth. You lie. You lied about everything! Your father, your childhood, even your reason for becoming a cop. I can't believe a word that comes out of your mouth!"

The acrimonious words hung in the air, lingering dreadfully between them. Clenching his hands into fists at his sides, Starsky longed to take them back as Hutch's tranquility wavered. For the briefest of moments, his face contorted with regret and his eyes flashed with the slightest hint of anguish. And then, as quickly as they appeared, the emotions were gone, chased away by indifference as he inhaled a deep breath. Exhaling, he pursed his lips and extended his arm, offering Starsky the steaming mug.

"I thought you were going to let me make the coffee," Starsky said, his voice wavering thickly. "Just like _old_ times."

"Nothing is as it once was," Hutch said simply. "Nothing can be as it has been."

"Because of what _you_ did."

"There is no need for you to be this upset. Very little has changed between last night and this morning." Carefully crafting his monotone words, Hutch's eyes remained locked on the floor as he seemingly considered the wide distance separating them. "The truth is not fluid, David. It is not changed by your ability to acknowledge or accept it. It has remained stagnate for nearly two years. Please," he nodded at the mug in his hands, "take it."

"I don't want anything from you."

"You did not sleep. You are exhausted; it will make you feel better."

"Nothing is going to make me feel better!" Starsky screamed, tears streaming down his naked cheeks. "There's no pills I can take, or place I can hide! All this time I've been trying to run away from myself but it didn't work. Nothing I did worked, because the problem isn't me, Hutch. It's you. It's always been you—"

"I refuse to participate in this conversation, again." Standing abruptly, Hutch placed the mug on the nightstand, and moved toward the bedroom door. "Fate is furious. Her mood will not be improved with discussions such as this."

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Starsky demanded brokenly. "Do you think you're him, now? That since Simon Marcus is dead that you can just slip in and take his place?"

Back turned, Hutch hesitated and hung his head, extending his hands to press his palms against the doorway framing the entry to the bedroom.

"Tell me what you did, Hutch." Though he couldn't see his face, Starsky could feel Hutch's conflict—what he hoped was the internal tug-of-war of wanting to confide everything all while knowing it would be too much. "I'm not crazy, and you're not monster, not really, but tell me what the hell you did to make us both this way."

"Do you have any idea how many times you have asked me that question?" Hutch asked, his voice even but his tone uncharacteristically vicious. "How many times you have stood here, in this very room, in this very place, and demanded to know that very thing? You could not handle the truth the last time or the times before what makes you think you can now?"

Unable to respond Starsky shook his head, a forlorn action that Hutch was destined not to see. He didn't know how to explain himself—or even if he wanted to—but he knew that he didn't need to. Hutch knew everything—every thought, every fear, every long buried secret. Starsky knew that when faced with this moment before, he hadn't had the courage to acknowledge the truth; he had done everything he could to stifle it and run away. Each of his meltdowns, each stay in a sterile white hospital wing, had been facilitated by a moment exactly like this. But running away hadn't changed anything, it had only made things worse.

Sniffling, he wiped at his tears and inhaled a deep, calming breath. He was done crying over things he couldn't change, through being an unwilling captive to fear he couldn't control, and finished running away. They had to move forward because they couldn't go back, but they couldn't do that—it was impossible to remain by one another's side—without giving the past proper attention, without acknowledging the events that had led them both here.

"Because I'm going to _try_ this time," Starsky whispered. "I'm going to try to accept the truth. But I need to know what happened." He grimaced. "And why you would want to make yourself like _this_. You're Hutch, but you're not the Hutch I know."

"The Hutch you know." Arms falling at his sides, Hutch turned in place and regarded Starsky with fiery eyes. "David, I have grown so weary of repeating myself and doing what I can to appease you. I have supported you through your fear; I have bolstered you through your contrived mental meltdowns, but fate is tired of tolerating your inability to conform to her wishes and so am I."

"How am I supposed to conform to anything if I don't know what I'm supposed do? How do you expect me to accept anything about how our life is now if you don't tell what you did to make it this way? You owe me that. After all the shit you've put me through, I think you owe me the truth."

"I owe you nothing," Hutch said, his tone low and dangerous. "You _chose_ this, David. You were the one who needed me. You promised to love me forever; you made a vow to honor me until death do us part, and I promised to protect you; I vowed to take care of you, but do not overestimate my affinity for you. I do not need you; as you said: I have _never_ needed you. You remain here because of fate's wishes, not mine."

Wounded by the words, Starsky sprang forward as Hutch tried to leave the room, and whining apprehensively Lucky trailed after him. "That's a lie," he said, grasping Hutch's forearms, he spun him around. "You love me; you wouldn't be here, you wouldn't be so intent on protecting me, if you didn't!"

"What makes you so certain you know why I have kept you here?" Hutch's expression darkened. "What makes you so certain you know anything for sure?"

"I know you."

"I can assure you that you do not, not anymore."

Hutch's skin felt hot in Starsky's hands, somehow burning beneath the thin long-sleeve shirt covering his arms. Tightening his grip, Starsky's face twisted as he was overcome with trio of sensations: jolts of pain traveled through his hands, shooting up his arms and into his chest; an overbearing sense of wrongness was sinking in, a horrible crippling combination of terror and shock, coupled with a demanding need to run. Letting go of Hutch's arms, he took a step back, nearly tripping over Lucky who remained underfoot.

"What happened to you?" he gasped, his terror renewed.

"All things in life happen for a reason. Nothing happened to me that wasn't meant to be. I was lost as child, then I was found, but the pain of those events never really went away. Fate knew that and that is why she chose me. She wanted to heal what was done; she wanted to empower me to become who I was always destined to be."

"Which is what? Another Simon Marcus?"

"I am _nothing_ like Simon Marcus. He was much kinder man than I aspire to be. There is an anger that lives inside of me, a darkness that is in my blood. It consumes me; right now, standing before you, I am more powerful than Marcus could have ever imagined becoming. Everything happens for a reason, David. Sometimes some must die so that others may live. Do you ever ask yourself who you belong to? Or why those dead men shared your scar? I absolved you of yours but rest assured their bodies will rot in the ground before their scars ever disappear."

"You're psychotic."

Starsky took a step back, then another and another. Lucky matched his strides, pressing his body against Starsky's shaking legs as his eyes remained locked on Hutch and the hairs on his back stood alert. Lips curling over sharp teeth, he emitted a series of low warning growls.

Standing in the doorway, Hutch gave no heed to the Dalmatian. "That is what my father believed," he said. "Admit it, after finding my medical files, there were times when you wondered it, too. And Callie Baker has been spending quite a bit of time, and money, on trying to prove that very same theory. She will not be able to, of course. Fate will never allow such a thing."

"Did you kill those felons?"

Hutch shrugged indifferently. "What makes you so certain that you did not?"

"I had nothing to do with the deaths of those men. What happened to them has nothing to do with me."

"It has everything to do with you. Do you think that you located their bodies by accident?"

"No…I…"

"You led yourself their locations. Maybe you knew where they were because you placed them there."

"No," Starsky insisted. He had no memories of doing such a thing. "I wouldn't have done that."

"That is not what John Blaine believes," Hutch whispered, his voice low and taunting. "He is going to come after you in the very same way he came after me. Of course, you are so much better at bargaining with him than I have ever been. I wonder, if you let him fuck you again do you think he would drop the charges?" His brows rose. "If I would have let him fuck you do you think it would have saved my career?"

"That ended a long time ago," Starsky said weakly, shamed by the regurgitated memories of mistakes he couldn't change. He had admitted the truth and apologized; Hutch had said he didn't care—he had said that the mistakes of the past didn't matter as long as they weren't repeated in the future.

"Not soon enough," Hutch said. Eyes glistening, he looked pleased, amused that his snide words could spark Starsky's anxiety so easily. "Though, it really is fortunate that I discovered your improprieties after finding fate. She has become a guiding presence in my life; she grounds and soothes me in ways I could only dream about. Who knows what I would have done had I discovered your indiscretions sooner. Maybe I would have put a bullet through Blaine's chest and then hid behind my badge. And, in the end, when this is all over that is what people will say about you. They will say you were allowed to return to a job you were not ready for and placed in a position of power you could not handle. They will say, that captive to psychosis, you hid behind _your_ badge, purposefully slaughtering men whose crimes haunted you the most."

Opening his mouth to reply, Starsky stared dumbly, instead. Heart pounding in his chest, he was breathless, unable to move his body from where he stood, and helpless to refute Hutch's callous words. He didn't murder anyone—he had no memory of doing such a thing. He hadn't known the felons in life, and outside of the charred man, Cameron Starsk, he had had no interaction with them at all.

"Either you truly do not remember much of what has happened or your stubbornness to avoid the truth has prevailed," Hutch said. "I do believe it is the latter. After all, you do have a very selective memory when it applies to recalling your own dishonesties and a very obstinate need to avoid the truth."

Clenching his hands into fists as his sides, Starsky was overcome by dread. His palms were wet, saturated by a thick liquid trickling from his fingertips. He didn't know how they gotten that way—what had happened to place the blood there or what made it vanish then rematerialize.

"Your hands are covered in blood, David." Hutch smirked. "Fate has unraveled you; she has taken most everything you ever held dear. What she took she will not return, but she is willing to give you something new. She could make all the speculation go away; you could go back to your uniform and badge and no one would have the slightest memory of what they think they know now. She could fix it all, and in an instant she would, if only you would stop fighting what you know and embrace what you see."

For a moment they stared at each other, wide cobalt colored eyes holding icy, disinterested blue. Lucky stood between them, carefully separating their bodies with his own as he surveyed Hutch with unwavering concentration. Overcome by anxiety, it was Starsky who broke eye contact first. Looking at his bloodstained hands, he longed for the peacefulness of the night prior, for the vast comfort Hutch had graciously provided. He wanted to feel Hutch's hands and be comforted by his gentle touch, allowing it fill his heart, warm his skin, and sooth his frantic mind. But it wasn't to be. As Hutch had said, nothing was as it had once been, nothing could be how it was, and Starsky was unable to refute the truth or soften the weight of what he knew.

The darkness existed; it was an unexplainable malevolent being Simon Marcus and Hutch called fate. She had resided in a bunker and now she existed in the corners of their home, eternally watching, puppeteering their lives, crafting every thought and every move. And through all the crippling hopelessness and dread, the disorienting anger and fear, she had allowed one propelling thought to remain: They had to go forward because there was no going back. But it wasn't until this moment that Starsky realized there would be no going forward—he and Hutch could never move from this place—not together, not like this. He couldn't live being privy to what Hutch had become; he couldn't tolerate being this close to the darkness or being an unwilling captive to fate—not again.

"There's no embracing this," Starsky whispered. "There's no accepting it. I'm not crazy, I know that now, and I refuse to be told that I am. But you're a monster, Hutch. You didn't start out that way but that's what you've allowed yourself to become."

Setting his shoulders, extending every inch of his spine, Hutch stood tall, sturdy and immobile in the middle of the room. Tilting his head thoughtfully he smiled, his eyes glistening with something akin to pride. "In all the conversations we have shared, in all the duplicate moments where you have recalled the truth of who I am, not once have your ever summoned the courage to say those words to me. You are brave, David, but foolish. There will be no avoiding what is to be. I would rest if I were you. Fate is moving quickly now; you will need all your energy for what she has planned."

TBC


	54. Chapter Fifty-Four

Closing his eyes, Starsky ran.

His legs trembled beneath him, his arms swayed haphazardly as his body moved at a furious pace. Gasping for air, his chest burned from exertion. The horizon was dark and fragmented; the path in front of him jagged, ill-kempt, and impossible to negotiate at his jumbled speed. He didn't know where he was headed; he didn't care where he ended up; the only thing that mattered now was that he didn't stop.

 _Run_ , Blaine's warning rung in his ears, prompting his fevered movements. _You leave as fast as you can._

And Starsky intended to do just that, but eyes fluttering open his heart sank, plummeting to the bottom of his stomach, as he realized he was standing painfully still.

Frozen in place at the top of the towering staircase of Venice Place he watched Hutch leave. He flinched with each step his husband took, the bottom of one dirty work-boot after the other pounding against the hardwood with maddening force as he drifted further and further away from who he once was—from the man who Starsky had once thought he knew better than himself.

He hadn't, Starsky reminded himself. He had thought he had known Hutch, but he hadn't known him at all. A regrettable thing now, the careful preservation of Hutch's secrets—the trauma he endured as a child and the hint of darkness he had carefully disguised as an adult— but not entirely Hutch's fault, not really. Richard Hutchinson had been careful to ensure his son had a future, albeit one he didn't agree with, but one free of the speculation attached the scandal of the past. And Starsky had played his part, too. He had avoided the truth—obstinately, as Hutch had accused. Though he had found Hutch's secret files hidden in the beach house, he had pretended he hadn't. He had known that there was more to Hutch than the person he presented himself to be. He hadn't wanted to know that part of him; he hadn't wanted to be privy to the truth.

There was a darkness inside Hutch—an evilness that would never be contained—though if fate had awakened it or the passing years had allowed Hutch to become proficient at hiding it, Starsky remained achingly unsure. There had been hints of it over the years—Starsky was certain there had been— every time Hutch had felt threatened, every time his eyes flashed with violent anger, and every time he reacted with quick volatile words— Starsky was sure now that he had seen a glimpse of something he had chosen to ignore.

 _"I know all about you_ ," Detective Corman had accused.

 _"You don't know shit about me_ ," Hutch had retorted hotly. Three days later, Corman had been killed, shot dead by a bullet from Hutch's gun. Though Corman hadn't been armed— at least not with a weapon—his death had been deemed righteous but regrettable by Chief Ryan and Bay City PD. In the tiny house, unseen by anyone else, Corman had threatened Hutch's life and Hutch had responded with deadly force. The action wasn't quite self-defense but it wasn't quite murder either, rather something in-between. Though Hutch had eventually shrugged the events off, Starsky never could. Something about it felt dirty, something about the events leading to Corman's death had always felt off.

There was darkness that lived inside of him—Hutch had said that himself—and Huntley had advised that before disappearing, Hutch had admitted that he believed something wanted it. Hutch had been drawn to fate—to Simon Marcus and the compound—from the very beginning. He hadn't been afraid; he hadn't respected Marcus's power. Treating him like a moronic criminal, he had taunted him.

Had Hutch known—from the very moment he had set eyes on him— that he was destined to kill Simon Marcus? Had he killed him knowing he would soon be called upon by fate to take his place? Were the details shrouding Marcus's death another hasty assumption?

"Tell me you had to do it, Hutch," Starsky whispered, repeating the nearly the same pleading question he had asked after Corman's death. "Tell me that you killed Marcus because he was trying to kill you, or even me. Tell me you didn't kill him with the intention of becoming _this_."

Hutch ignored his plea. "Do not follow me," he said firmly, his voice sounding like a feral growl, as he clenched the doorknob in a white-knuckled fist. Whatever amity had existed between them had expired; it had been hastily dissolved by Starsky's refusal to embrace and support Hutch's kinship with fate. "No matter what happens, what you hear or see, you remain here until I direct you to leave."

"Tell me you didn't know anything about fate when you killed Marcus," Starsky pressed. "Tell me you didn't kill him with the intention of getting close to _her_."

Staring dumbly, Starsky wondered if this moment was destined to become a haunting memory. If months from now, reeling from fragmented nightmares, adjustments to his medication, and ill-given advice gathered from endless therapy sessions, he would look back and question the validity of what he felt—of what he knew—in this very moment. There was a monster in his house and it was Hutch. His Hutch had not been taken or replaced, rather changed. Fractured and broken in childhood, he had allowed himself to be twisted and darkened by fate.

The apartment shook as Hutch slammed the door, seemingly swaying precariously on its foundation as the bang of the door nestling tightly into the doorframe echoed, ricocheting off the walls before eventually settling into a stifling silence.

Sitting at Starsky's feet, Lucky whined, tilting his head back and struggling to look his owner in the eye. Starsky ignored him and the claustrophobic fear that was tightening the base of his throat. He couldn't bear the sight of the dog, his dark eyes wide, shining with an unasked question: What are we going to do?

But Starsky didn't know what to do, or if there was anything that could be done. Rejecting himself, Hutch had embraced fate. She was protecting him now in the same way she had once protected Marcus. There would be no challenging her, no superseding her power; Hutch was doing her bidding and she was calling the shots.

There was nothing to do—nothing that could be done. Starsky was clueless as to how Hutch and fate could be separated now, or if such a thing was possible—or even if really wanted to. After all, Hutch has chosen this. Seeking the depths of the bunker on the Marcus Compound after being dismissed from Bay City PD, he had chosen fate over Starsky, over himself, over the peaceful life they could have had.

"What makes you think you are capable of such a thing?" the silence seemed to hiss. "What makes you think you are entitled to the contrived happiness of others? You have blood on your hands. You have no idea how you came to be this way, or why he would absolve you of your scar, but I do."

Glancing at his hands, Starsky found them soaked with blood. Thick, round crimson droplets dripped from his fingertips, falling aimlessly only to disappear the moment they touched the floor.

"There are so many things you don't remember," the voice whispered, becoming louder and deeper with each word. "And so many events you insist you have forgotten. And though others aren't privy to the past you insist you don't recall, I am. We both know that you haven't forgotten. After all that has happened how could you?"

If it would have been earlier in the morning Starsky may have been afraid of the voice. Pressing his hands to his ears, he may have run to the protective confines of the master bathroom, his eyes welling with fresh, fearful tears. But it wasn't earlier in the morning; it was right now. And right now—fueled by his maddening conversation with Hutch—he felt his fear shift, transforming into deep, uncontainable fury. It had been years since he had heard this voice, the gritty, inhuman, feminine tenor—so much time had passed since the last time fate had chosen to speak to him—but he recognized her vile presence immediately.

"You bitch!" he said, the deep, growling words emerging from the very depths of his chest.

Laughter echoed around him. Grinding and taunting, it filled the space with stifling turpitude. Seemingly disturbed by the foreign foreboding cackle, Lucky cowered and retreated to the safety of the base of the staircase. Glancing warily between Starsky and the door, he lifted his paw, scratching the doorframe incessantly as he whined apprehensively. Balling his hands into tight fists, Starsky stood unmoving at the top of the staircase. He didn't think about running—the fear-fueled thought never crossed his mind— as his skin tingled, puckering with goosebumps and his body temperature seemed to drop almost instantaneously.

"You God-damn _bitch_!" he exclaimed. He turned rapidly in place, his eyes searching for the form belonging to the voice. The hallway was empty, and hearing laughter emerge from the kitchen, he rushed to the empty living area. "Is this your big plan?" he demand, frantically searching for something he was both dreading and longing to see. Who would fate chose to present herself as this time? Whose form would she chose to break him with? "You're going to show up the second Hutch leaves to try to scare me into letting you worm your way back into my head, or into another psych ward? Well, fuck you, because that's not happening. You can't have me and I'm tired of being afraid of you."

"I already have you. I have had you for a very long time."

"The fuck you have!" Starsky bellowed as he looked frantically around the room, still searching for something he knew he would never be allowed to see.

The sun had risen; Hutch had long since opened the blinds, allowing its cheerful rays to brighten and illuminate every inch of the elongated space. There was no hint of darkness in the room, no shadows hiding undisturbed in the corners. How could fate be speaking to him? How could she be present in a room with no shadows, no darkness—no Hutch?

"This isn't a bunker and Simon Marcus is dead!" Starsky shouted, feigning a certain strength he didn't feel. "I'm not afraid of you anymore! There's nothing you can do to me, nothing you can take from me that I haven't already lost."

"You are afraid," Fate hissed. "Though you are not nearly as afraid of me as you are of yourself. Tell me, how have enjoyed being view by others these past few years? Do you feel a kinship with your mother? Do you understand her unstable opinions and the fearful actions now that you have become captive to your own?"

"I am not crazy!"

"Maybe you are. There are cracks in your reality, gaps in your memory. You have blood on your hands. You don't know how it was placed there, but I do."

Triggered by the incessant whisper, Starsky lost all control, rushing around the room, upturning furniture in a flurry of violent movements, breaking anything small enough to throw. And when he was done, the room was in shambles; the furniture was broken, lying in haphazard misshapen heaps among scattered glass and debris. Standing near the kitchen island, his chest heaving with exertion, he clenched his moist fists at his sides. His hands may be bloody, but the broken room showed no evidence of the thick liquid seeping from his fingertips. Not a drop had stained the belongings littering the floor.

"You have blood on your hands," Fate repeated, the pleased words echoing through the room. "Just like before. You do remember before, don't you?"

"Where are you?" Starsky huffed. Though said with the intent to threaten, his voice betrayed his words, cracking to reveal the strain of the moment. "How are you here?"

"I am everywhere and nowhere. I am everyone and no one."

Threading his wet fingers through his short hair, Starsky closed his eyes tightly, forcing a deep breath as he willed his rapid heartbeat to cease. He couldn't handle this; he couldn't handle anything, not the darkness or the silence, not the panic that was threatening to engulf him with each passing moment. He didn't want to be here; he couldn't tolerate being cornered by fate, held captive to her disorienting presence —at least not alone. He wanted to leave the apartment, to rush to the bottom of the staircase where Lucky anxiously awaited his decision to open the door and dash from the stifling confines of their home—the one place that should have been sacred, where he should have felt comfortable and safe, yet, never really had.—but he remained frozen, not in place, rather bound to the tall brick walls containing him by Hutch's parting words: _No matter what happens, what you hear or see, you remain here until I direct you to leave._

Had Hutch known that fate would come? Of course he did, Starsky thought frantically. Hutch knew everything—every thought, every secret, and every buried fear. His very presence was covertly threatening, his every word purposefully chosen and carefully articulated. But as Starsky had once longed for Simon Marcus's protective presence in the depths of the bunker all those years ago, he longed for Hutch now. For his unwavering certainty and profound calmness to ease the stifling tension and crippling dread filling the apartment.

"Come back," Starsky whispered, praying that Hutch would somehow hear his plea. "Please, _please—"_

"Are you so certain you want him to return?" Fate taunted. "Given all the things he forced you to endure in the depths of the bunker? He took advantage of you; he made you bleed."

"That wasn't him. It was you." Face contorting painfully, Starsky refused to open his eyes. He didn't want to think about before; he had gone through such great lengths to avoid considering the events that had taken place in the bunker on the Marcus Compound. Using Hutch's likeness fate and tortured him, and Marcus had allowed it—not that he really had a choice, Starsky understood that now.

"You understand much more about those events than you claim to and much more than you want to."

"No," Starsky denied weakly. Reaching for the grounding familiarity of his scar, his heart dropped as he found his cheek bare. He nothing to hang onto. Hutch had left and fate had emerged, stifling him with guilt and fear, torturing him with everything he didn't want to think about. "I don't."

"You are always so quick to play the fool," Fate laughed. "You know what has brought you here. You know why he chose me over you. You always have and you always will."

"I don't remember."

"You remember. You always have and you always will. I always allowed Marcus the freedom to play his little games. He enjoyed them so. He made a fool of both of you. He hid Brian Blackwell in plain sight; disguising him as Gale, Marcus made a mockery of your professional skills. And you, my lord, you were a surprise. I never anticipated your anger, your pain, your incapability to deny me anything when I posed as the one you call Hutch, or your reaction when Gale returned to take something you were unwilling to give, at least to him."

"I don't remember any of that," Starsky claimed, though he knew the words were a lie. And as soon as he said them a distant memory emerged from the depths of his mind to contradict his words, to seemingly taunt him with its vivid truth. Inhaling a sharp breath, he titled his head, his face contorting painfully. He didn't want think about it. He didn't want to understand what had happened to lead him and Hutch to where they were now. But eyes closed, fragments of the memory engulfed him, igniting a pain in the depths of his heart.

"Tell me why you killed Brother Gale _,_ " Simon Marcus had requested, his eyes gleaming curiously as he kneeled next to Starsky on the dirty bunker floor. "You call yourself a rescuer; a servant of the law, yet, you chose to kill Gale; you chose the moment he took his last breath. You are not as rational as you would like to think. That is okay. Everyone has a bit darkness inside."

"No," Starsky whispered, shaking his head obstinately. He refused to think about it—he refused to consider all the things he longed to forget. His heart dropped as he opened his eyes and set them on the stainless-steel refrigerator on the far end of the kitchen. Hutch's photographs still clung to its face, hung by round blue colored magnets that offset their aged hues. This wasn't about him—it had never been about him—he thought torpidly. Fate had wanted Hutch—not him—Simon Marcus had said so.

"Simon Marcus lied to you," Fate said. "Just as you have lied to yourself. Tell me why you killed Gale. I already know, of course, but I want you to justify what you have done. I want you to fully understand that some of the blood seeping from your hands is not as fresh as you believe it is. It has been there all along."

"This isn't about me," Starsky whispered stubbornly, forcing himself to ignore the guilt and grief attached to the memory that refused to be silenced and ignored.

He had killed Gale, broken his neck with his bare hands. Though his actions were defendable, his reasoning for doing such a thing understandable—Gale had been trying to rape him—killing him had still been a terrible thing to do, because by doing so Starsky had released his own demons. He had allowed himself to betray his internal moral compass. He had killed man in cold blood and he had _liked_ it. For horrendous moment, as Gale lay gurgling on his own blood, Starsky had felt an unreasonable amount of joy. He had taken pleasure in Gale's pain, it had provided respite from the uncertainty of the darkness, and made him feel dominating, powerful, and strong.

"My dear, it was always about you," Fate sneered. "From the first moment the two of you arrived on the property, I knew what was to be. I knew I wanted him, the man you call Hutch, the one who was meant to Cameron but who was always destined to become Kenneth. His pain was tangible, his anger exquisite. I knew I would have him, but in order to truly do so I needed you…"

"No."

"...And you played your role so beautifully, both before Kenneth brought you to Marcus and after I finally allowed him to rescue you. Your relationship was fractured before the moment I discovered the two of you, that is true. Kenneth's pain at that point in time was overpowering; his father had died abruptly leaving him to contend with the secrets festering in the depth of his soul. He needed you so badly back then, but he was unable to find a way to lean on you, and you were unable to see past his anger. You were unwilling to push him for more information than you wanted to hear."

"That's not true," Starsky said. The pictures on the refrigerator were moving now, their edges fluttering against a gust of imaginary wind. "I would do anything for him. I would be privy to whatever he wanted me to know. I _love_ him."

"So did his father," Fate countered. "Yet, neither of you really love Kenneth for who he is; neither of you were willing to accept his faults or see past his mistakes. His father held him accountable for falling prey to his uncle, and you held him accountable for all the things that happened to you."

"I would forgive him for anything."

"You never forgave him for pursuing Simon Marcus and exposing you to me, just as he knew you never would. Killing Marcus, he rescued you from me, and, in the months that followed, you abandoned him. You made it easy for him to return to the property, for him to seek respite in my shadows."

"I didn't."

"You did. Running to your aunt and uncle's home, you refused to be around him. You refused to speak to him. You allowed his guilt to fester; you allowed his pain to multiply. You allowed him to return to your side eventually, that is true, but by then it was too late. The damage was already done; the perfect image of who you though he was had already been shattered. Kenneth did not know how to be loved unconditionally, that is true, but there are conditions attached to the love you chose to give. People fail you and you erase them from your life."

"That's not true!"

"Your mother and brother are alive, yet, you avoid them because of the things they've done…"

"That's different."

"...Kenneth knew your favored coping mechanism was to flee that which you do not want to see or accept. He feared the silences between you, the empty moments when you had no choice but to talk about everything left unsaid. After Marcus's death, his fear of you was as powerful as your fury towards him. That was why he chose what he did. You were angry and broken and Kenneth knew he could never be strong enough for you; he knew that you would never see him the same again, that what the two of you had lost you would never be able to regain."

"I didn't do this!" Starsky said, though he wondered if his fierce words were a lie. Hutch's earlier words echoed though his mind, awakening stinging guilt and crippling doubt. _You chose this_ , Hutch had said. _You were the one who needed me._ "I didn't tell him to run to you. I didn't tell him to do anything."

"You asked him to be strong when he was so weak. You asked him to burden your anger and pain when he couldn't began to contend with his own. He knew he could never be who he once was, that he would never be as strong as you needed him to be or as courageous as you once thought he was."

" _No_. That's not true. That _can't_ be true."

"You are eternally avoidant," Fate jeered. "You are so obstinate in the face of accepting responsibility for your own actions. You see what you want to see, and when the truth becomes too much for you to admit or accept you run away, but not wanting to face the truth doesn't make it nonexistent. Do not forget that I know you. I am privy to every fear, every thought, every buried secret, and every action that ever caused you shame. I know you David Starsky, inside and out."

"You don't know shit about me."

"Do you not remember the time we spent together? Of course you do. How could you forget events as defining as those? What a magnificent time it was! I used the likeness of Kenneth's body and face to torture you but do not fooled by those events now. It was his pain, his hidden darkness my actions were born from; my actions only existed because of him. There is darkness inside of him, a _superb_ brokenness and longing that only I can repair. That is why he chose me. That is why instead of returning home to you, he ran to me. He _belongs_ to me."

Starsky's face contorted painfully, as one-by-one the aged pictures fell from the face of the refrigerator, their absence revealing a heart-wrenching new photograph. "No," he whispered, the words feeling thick in this throat. Though the photograph was a fair distance away, its details were devastating. Standing in middle of a barren field, his face expressionless and eyes glistening, was Hutch. "No," he said forlornly. "I was confused and angry, but I _never_ wanted him to leave. I never wanted him to become this."

"You never wanted who to become what?" a soft voice asked suddenly.

Inhaling sharply, Starsky turned rapidly and was taken aback by what he saw—an image that was so foreign he struggled to believe it. Expression indecipherable, Whitley stood paces away, his eyes carefully cataloguing the annihilated living room. Starsky almost didn't recognize him without his uniform. Dressed in plain clothes, his partner looked different—younger somehow—and drastically out of place amidst the turmoil of the morning.

"How long have you been here?" Starsky asked breathlessly.

"Not long. Who are you talking to?"

"Nobody." Grounding his feet on the floor, Starsky refused to disclose more. If Whitley hadn't heard fate's inhuman voice he certainly wasn't going to bring it up. He didn't want to explain it; he didn't want to be the one responsible for exposing Whitley to such a malevolent being. "It was nothing."

"Didn't sound like nothing to me," Whitley said sadly. "It sounded like you were arguing with yourself. Do you do that a lot? Argue with yourself?"

"No," Starsky said. Uncertain by his own word, he absently reached for his scar and, once again, found his cheek achingly bare. But the motion wasn't without purpose, suddenly, he found himself terrified of how to explain the absence of the long linear mark. "Do you notice anything different about me?" he asked, forcing an even tone.

Whitley shrugged. "You shaved?"

"And?"

"And what?"

"I had a scar," Starsky whispered, snaking an index finger to touch his cheek. "Right, here."

"No, you didn't," Whitley said, his brows furrowing worriedly. "I think I'd remember something like that."

"You think I never had scar," Starsky said, the shocked words escaping before he had a chance to truly consider their damaging repercussions. Fate was protecting him—or maybe it was Hutch—somehow preventing him from having to explain the absence of something that had become so much a part of his post-Marcus identity.

"You never had a scar."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course, I'm sure."

Though Whitley's words were soft, his tone was forced, his unreadable expression more so. He was worried—Starsky swiftly realized. He was deeply troubled about something but trying fiercely to maintain an indifferent demeanor.

Kicking the toe of his tennis shoe against the floor, Whitley grimaced awkwardly. "Where's Hutch?" he asked.

"He left," Starsky said, though he knew the words were a lie. He knew Hutch was in the basement—though he hadn't watched him descend into its depths, he knew was there. It was the only certain fact in was becoming an increasingly uncertain day.

"His truck's outside," Whitley countered.

"He walked."

"Where?"

"I don't know."

"Any idea when he'll be back?"

"No. I don't exactly keep track of him. Why are you here, Whitley? And why do you give a shit where Hutch is?"

"I don't know, man," Whitley sighed, shoving his hands into his jean pockets. "I wasn't going to come see you, at least not alone. And I shouldn't be here now, not after last night." He snorted sadly. "Dobey told me to stay away from you. But I woke up with the damnedest feeling in the pit of my gut, you know? It was like something was pulling me toward you, like something was telling me that you needed someone to be on your side."

"Against what?" Starsky scoffed weakly, internally struggling between skepticism and relief. He did need someone; never in his life had he needed someone more.

"That I don't really know. I guess, I don't want you to be alone. I was hoping that Hutch was here, that he'd be around today." Whitley frowned, his face contorting with self-doubt. "I feel like I need to tell you something, but I'm not quite not sure if I should. _Actually_ ," he amended, "I know I shouldn't, but I want to."

"You can tell me anything," Starsky whispered, repeating the words he longed to travel back in time and say to Hutch. He had told his husband that at one point, hadn't he? Though he hoped he had now, it didn't ease uncertainty attached to question. If he hadn't said the statement then he should have, but it was too late to focus on guilt surround such a futile thing now. "Why are you here?"

Whitley hesitated, rocking back and forth on the balls of this feet. "Things are going to start happening," he whispered, glancing longing at the hallway. "And I shouldn't be here right now. But I like you, so I guess I came to warn you." Smiling bitterly, he shook his head. "Though I don't have a fucking clue what you're going to do about it, or how you're going to stop them from thinking it was you. _Shit_ , maybe it really was you."

"What are you talking about?"

"Callie Baker is dead. A jogger found her body late last night."

"What?" Starsky asked dumbly. "Where?"

"That isn't all they found," Whitley said, his conflicted voice almost too low to hear. "I shouldn't be here; I shouldn't be telling you _any_ of this. It isn't so much what they found as _where_ it was placed and the evidence they're piecing together about what happened before her body was discovered."

"Whitley?" Starsky asked dreadfully. "What's going on?"

"Callie Baker is dead," Whitley repeated. "A jogger found her remains last night. The scene was a _fucking_ bloodbath; Baker was decapitated; her torso was mutilated; her limbs were dismembered. Her remains were left in the sand, scattered among the mutilated, dismembered remains of a man. Though his identity hasn't been confirmed, Blaine and Dobey are both _very_ sure they know who it is. The bodies were found on a beach. Starsky, they were found on the beach near where you and Hutch used to live."

"What?"

"The police department received a complaint yesterday evening from the owner of the house Hutch used to own. The woman reported that a man matching your description was parked in a red Camaro in front of her house. She was worried because he had been there for quite some time."

"No."

"Starsky," Whitley said insistently. "Chief Ryan pulled the security footage of the your parking level of Metro's garage, it showed you and Callie Baker engaging in heated conversation. As of right now, you are allegedly the last person to have to have seen her alive. I know I don't have to tell you what looks like, or what it means for you."

"But I didn't do anything," Starsky said weakly.

"That's not Ryan thinks. It's not Dobey or Blaine believe, either. I'm sorry, but they're coming for you, partner. They're working on the warrant right now. You don't have much time. They'll be here soon."

"Then you should leave," Starsky said. "And take Lucky with you. You can drop him off at my Aunt and Uncle's house in the valley. You remember how to get there, don't you?"

"Of course. But why—?"

"Just take him." Starsky's eyes were pleading. "I don't want him here when this all falls apart. I want him as far away from here as possible; I _need_ to know he's somewhere safe." Crouching in front Lucky, Starsky settled his palms on the dog's muscled shoulders, burrowing his fingers into the short fur and pressing his forehead to the Dalmatian's. "I love you, pal," he whispered softly, the words nearly too quiet to be heard. "I'm going to fix this; I promise you everything is going to be okay."

And even though he said the words, Starsky knew nothing would be okay—it couldn't be— Fate had seen to that.

Face set with conflict, Whitley stared at Starsky as he stood, seemingly wanting to ask a question but unable to form the correct words.

"Get out of here," Starsky instructed, tilting his head toward the hallway. "You were never were supposed to be here, remember? If Dobey and Blaine find you here you'll be in deep shit."

"I don't care."

"You should. You have a career to think about. Don't fuck up Dobey's plans for you just because you woke up with a feeling in your gut."

"It was hell of a feeling," Whitley countered seriously. "It hasn't gone away and I don't think it will. I can't leave you like this, Starsky. I can't leave you alone."

"Hutch will come back," Starsky assured, though he knew the statement was a lie. "And then I won't be alone. I'll text him and he'll come. Whitley, what's going on now has nothing to do with you. Hutch has to be the one to stand beside me in all this. He has to be the one to who helps me through this."

"He better."

Though his partner appeared sufficiently pacified by his words, Starsky felt a surge of regret as Whitley grabbed Lucky's collar and gently prompted the dog to follow him toward the hallway.

"See you around, Starsky," Whitley said.

"There's a leash hanging by the door at the bottom of the stairs," Starsky said as Lucky's gaze caught his own. Confused, dark sparking eyes that seemed to accusing him of breaking their silent pact. "You won't need it; he's a _really_ good dog, but you should take it just in case."

Whitley nodded and then they were gone. Their tandem footsteps echoed through the apartment, Whitley's sneakers squeaking against the hardwood accompanied by Lucky's short toenails relentlessly tapping, as they left Starsky to contend with Fate and the future alone.

 _Well, not entirely alone_ , Starsky thought. He would never be entirely alone, again. He had Hutch's secrets to keep him company—and his own— and all the pain and regret of a past they couldn't change and future they had no control over.

Moving to the open kitchen cabinets, he reached for a perfect white mug, then hesitated, looking between it and Hutch's speckled green enamel camping mug which lay dirtied in the sink. He didn't know what was drawing him to the item, what made him want to use Hutch's mug over a white one, if he was longing for familiarity or avoiding polluting something that appeared so clean. He knew that Hutch loved the chipped and rugged mug—its appearance forever altered from fierce overuse—and in that moment, Starsky decided that he loved it, too. Not bothering to clean it, he returned to the kitchen island.

Laying on its side, its bottle marred with precarious cracks, the Glengoyne was waiting patiently for him. How it had survived being dropped, Starsky didn't know but he didn't care, either, and uncapping it he poured a healthy amount. He despised the darkness of the liquid; he was disgusted by its goose-bump-prompting burn as it slid down his throat and set his stomach a flame. But he forced it down, chasing it with another swift refill.

The alcohol overcame him quickly, setting his skin abuzz and enveloping his worried mind with a calm certainty. Everything was as it should be—as fate had ultimately planned. He couldn't run from her in the bunker and he couldn't run from her now, and even if he could have he knew wouldn't; he was finished running away.

Tossing another drink back, he embraced the warmth of the hard alcohol, the full-bodied buzz that was swiftly consuming him with contrived courage. He would need it to endure what was coming; he would need it to survive where he was going.

"Well, are you going to come back?" he asked the silence of the room. "Time is ticking away. If you have anything else to say to me you better get it out now, before Dobey and Blaine come and take me away to a padded room. That's the game plan, right? I was terrified of being crazy so you made me look psychotic, instead. And if everyone thinks I killed those people, that I was the one to arrange those bodies like that, then I'm not going to jail. They'll put somewhere worse, someplace with straitjackets and padded rooms, someplace that I'll get to check into but never leave. They'll medicate my fucking brains out until I don't hear or remember you anymore." His words were bitter despite the alcohol racing though his blood stream, and anger building in his chest, he found himself anxious to hear Fate's reply.

The room remained silent as Starsky poured himself a final drink. He grimaced as the alcohol slid down his throat, leaving it feeling raw and inflamed. He hated hard alcohol—but not nearly as much as Hutch once had.

Was this the end Fate had wanted? Exposing their secrets, exploiting their deepest fears, she had fractured them, leaving them both reaching for things they once despised—things they had once determinedly sworn would have no place in their lives. Secretly, Hutch was a monster but it was Starsky who Fate was still intent on dismantling piece-by-piece.

"Of course you aren't going to talk," he snorted, answering his own question as he slammed the mug on the island. "You already got what you wanted. I may not be crazy but the whole world will think I am. You got Hutch and you destroyed me. You don't give a fuck what happens next because you already know how it all ends."

He eyed the near empty bottle, briefly considering finishing it off and then shattering it on the floor. "You're still here. I know you are," he growled. "I can feel you; your darkness is embedded in the fucking walls. Why won't you say _something_? You were so _talkative_ before Whitley interrupted us and now you're leaving me hanging."

Body humming with fresh anger, he carded his fingers through his hair and groaned. Fate's invisible presence or not, he didn't like talking to a silent room. The behavior was too crazed, too reminiscent of the unstable behavior his mother used to display. It made him feel unhinged; it made him feel as though his worst fears were slowly coming true. They already were—of course—Dobey and Blaine were on their way, soon he would be charged with a series of homicides he could neither deny nor confirm he committed. And he couldn't defend himself while he remained so unsure of what he responsible for.

"Maybe your mother still talks to herself," Fate hissed, her words gleeful and provocative. "Maybe she still screams herself to sleep. You don't know what she does. What her life is like, if she's controlling her illness or if it's controlling her. You don't know her at all."

"You're right," Starsky snorted, his lips curling into a bitter smile. He didn't know what he had expected Fate to say when she finally spoke again, but it wasn't what he heard. He knew her reply was intentional—she was trying to rouse guilt; she was trying to use his memories against him in an effort to dissolve him into stagnate apprehension and fear. The alcohol had left him sullen and peevish and when faced with her finely crafted words, he found himself irritated rather than afraid. "You're _always_ right. But for the record, she was the one who abandoned me, it wasn't the other way around. I waited for her to get better; I _waited_ for her to want me back. She _never_ did."

"She didn't like that you saw her demons. When she could finally see past their hold, she couldn't handle living with the knowledge of all the hurt she caused you. She couldn't go back and change what had happened and she didn't know how to move forward without letting you go. And in the end, she did let you go. She let you go for good."

"Your little mind tricks aren't going to work, not this time. There is nothing you can say to me that can make my life any worse than it already is. If you want to threaten me with the past then you better chose someone else to do it with. There's nothing you can say about my mother that will hurt me."

"I do not wish to hurt you, not now," Fate said sweetly. "Everything I wanted is already in motion. Tell me about your mother. Tell me how you came to be who are you are."

"No," Starsky said. "I'm not going relive the past. I'm not going to stand here and tell you things you claim to already know."

"It might help to talk about it."

"It won't."

"It will," Fate said, her voice melodic and firm, and, suddenly, stubborn anger briefly waning, Starsky became captive to a cluster of memories he longed to forget.

"I didn't know anything was wrong with my mother until my dad died," he admitted, the soft words spilling from his mouth by their own volition. "I didn't… I mean now, it's all so _obvious_ the things he did to make our life seem normal, to make _her_ seem normal. But back then I didn't know. How was supposed to? I was just a kid. After he died, she couldn't take care of us; she couldn't even take care of herself." He closed his eyes, his heart stinging from the strength of the memory. Years had passed but he could still hear the shrillness of his mother's screams; he could still feel the sting of her hands bruising his skin as she held his arms too tight, and he could still smell the rottenness of the apartment her sickness had held them captive in for weeks at a time. "Mom was sick; dad was dead; Nicky was scared; but I was terrified. We were isolated—Dad had made sure of that—he thought he was protecting her; he thought he was protecting us. And after he was gone we didn't have anybody. There were no relatives around, the neighbors kept to themselves; if anyone knew what was going on they sure didn't care."

"They were too absorbed in their own lives, their own struggles to pay heed to yours."

"Mom kept us out of school for too long, eventually, someone called the cops to check up on us, and when that officer finally came, _God_ , I was so relieved. I nine years-old; I just wanted help. I didn't want what happened to us. I didn't know it was going to go down the way that it did."

"You did what you had to do."

"I _always_ do what have to do," Starsky said sadly. "That's who I am. I plaster a fucking smile on my face, pretend that it's all okay, and I get the job done. I don't talk about grief or guilt because I can't, and I do everything I can to avoiding looking back because I don't like what I see. It's my fault that CPS took us away. I told the truth and it hurt everyone in the end. They sent Nicky to relatives upstate and they shipped me out here. Everyone told me it was temporary, that Bay City was never meant to be my home, but still I remember knowing that it was more permanent than anyone was saying, than anyone else really knew. Then time passed and made liars of them all."

"You are very intuitive," Fate said matter-of-factly. "It is a trait that has served you well."

"Years passed while I waited for her to get better and she did. She was discharged from the hospital. She got her life sorted out and regained custody of Nicky, and waited for her to come for me."

"But she never did."

"She never did," Starsky repeated. "Eventually, she wrote me a letter. _Jesus_ , even back then she couldn't even pick up the _God-damn_ phone. She said I was better off staying here, that my life would be better."

"Was it?"

"I don't know." Starsky shrugged. "Maybe. Nicky's sure wasn't though."

"Your mother's perception of your brother was very different than how she saw you. He was much younger when the three of you were separated; he didn't understand the context of your mother's behavior. He didn't realize what had happened until many years later."

"He got stuck with her and I got out; whatever bond they have, whatever family they've formed with each other, I'm not a part of that." Starsky frowned thoughtfully. "Man, it's weird the things that can divide families. Messed up shit happens, things go down that are completely out of anyone's control and, still, somebody's got to be held responsible for it. Somebody's got to take the blame."

"And you were the one to accept the blame for what happened with your mother, all the events beyond your control."

"Doesn't matter, not anymore."

"But it does. There is not a day when you do not feel the pain of their absence, the sting of the lost relationships with your mother and brother."

"Yeah, well, you can't control people." Starsky laughed humorlessly, "I guess _you_ can, but I can't. My mom won't talk to me, and Nicky hates me for never coming back, so the whole topic is pretty irrelevant, isn't it?"

"You don't know your brother hates you."

"I do, because he told me he did. He thinks I abandoned him, that I purposely left him to grow up on his own." Starsky's face contorted with disgust. "I thought you knew _everything_."

"I do."

"Apparently, you don't."

Fate laughed, a light, airy, melodic sound that reverberated through the room. The noise was so contradictory to her normal darkness that it should have felt good—it should have felt right. He was pleasing her with his disclosures as he spoke of the pain of the past as though it had no hold over him, and absently Starsky realized he should have felt relieved. But he didn't. Regret and grief burning in this chest, all he felt was dread.

"This is how you got him isn't it?" Starsky asked.

"Who?"

"Hutch. You stripped him of everything he cared about; you fractured us, you cornered him and left him with nothing to lose, then lured him back into that bunker. And then you presented yourself as kind, compassionate and caring. You probed him for information; you asked him who he was and what had made him that way. You spoke to him like his pain and hurt didn't have to matter, anymore. You probably made him feel accepted; _shit_ , you probably made him feel loved, and then he let you in."

"You are very perceptive, indeed."

"No," Starsky disagreed. "I know Hutch better than anyone in the world. I know what it would take to get to him; I know how to manipulate him, how to get him to do what I want. You being here, what happened with Simon Marcus, and the decision Hutch made after he was fired is all just as much my fault as it was his. I wanted him to be honest but I didn't hold myself accountable for the same. He wasn't the one who didn't know how to love me; that was the other way around, too."

"Where are you going?" Fate asked as Starsky stood, swaying momentarily before moving gracelessly toward the hallway.

"You tell me," Starsky countered snidely. "You're the one who knows it all."

TBC


	55. Chapter Fifty-Five

Standing in front of the locked basement door, Starsky looked the deadbolts up and down, absently counting them as his eyes traveled from one to the next. He didn't know what was down there—what Hutch didn't want him to find—but he knew his husband sought respite in the depths of the building. He knew that whatever was beneath the floorboards of their apartment had been angry and evil enough to take Jack Mitchell's life; he knew that Dobey and Blaine were coming for him—he didn't have much time.

Arms hanging limply at his sides, he absently considered the purpose of Fate making her presence known and what her intentions where when she finally spoke to him. She had asked who he was and what had made him that way and while Starsky hadn't wanted to answer, he had been helpless to refuse her request. But in answering her question he had realized something about himself—something he hadn't considered before.

Like Hutch, his childhood trauma had defined him. Though he hadn't been kidnapped or brutalized, he had been deeply hurt by someone who should have protected him. His father had died but his mother had lived, and her actions—some she hadn't had control over and others she had—had embedded scars deep inside of him.

Richard Hutchinson had instilled in Hutch a profound fear of telling the truth about the past; that was his burden in life. Over time, he had grown too accustomed to picking a choosing details about the past that were safe to disclose and carefully safeguarding those that weren't. Hutch hadn't been able to tell the truth about what had happened when he was young—who he had been and who he was—because he had been afraid of being abandoned; he had been afraid of losing the life he had worked so hard to build.

Simon Marcus had told Starsky that Hutch's secrets were what made him weak. It was his fear that had led him to the compound, his insecurities and brokenness what had made him so exploitable and an easy target for Fate. Marcus had said that Hutch's inability to accept his pain and the past had made him a broken man—a lesser version of who he was meant to be.

The Charred Man—Cameron Starsk—had told Starsky that he and Hutch were more alike than they were different, but it took Fate's presence for Starsky to suddenly realized how much that was true. He had disclosed to Fate what he had never been able to tell anyone else: He always did what he had to do. Burying his pain deep inside, he always tried to force a smile and do whatever was asked of him. He didn't talk about guilt or grief because he couldn't. He avoided considering the past, because he didn't like what he saw.

Like Hutch, he was haunted by the past; he was deeply—irrationally—afraid of the truth. As a child, he had told the truth about his mother and it fractured the family had known, leaving his relationships with his mother and brother irrevocably damaged. As an adult, he still carried the pain of the one lie he wish he would have told. Over time, that guilt and grief had manifested into an unconscious habit—an ill-conceived coping mechanism— a fierce desire to avoid the truth. It didn't matter who it belonged to or what it was, the truth couldn't hurt him—it couldn't hurt anybody—if it was never told. And that was his error—his involuntary misstep—that had led them both here.

He had known about Hutch's buried past prior to Simon Marcus's momentous entrance in their lives. Fueled by the anger and frustration, Starsky had ransacked the beach house when Hutch had left and returned alone to the Midwest to grieve his father's sudden death. He hadn't known what he was looking for, but somehow he had known there was something to find. His heart had been in his throat, his hands had moved by their own volition, as he came upon the faded files, cleverly disguised, hidden in the back of the closet in their spare bedroom. The details of the documents were devastating, and Starsky had struggled to forget the details burned into his memory of the psychiatric reports beginning the summer Hutch would have been seven-years-old and continuing on for years.

Simon Marcus had told Starsky that his greatest flaw was loyalty; he had advised it was the quality that would lead him to his eventual demise. Though Marcus had been right, he had been wrong, too.

When Hutch returned after his father's funeral, Starsky hadn't asked him about the files. He hadn't told him what he knew, or offered to shoulder the pain attached to the past Richard Hutchison had carefully buried. He hadn't brought it up at all. Starsky had told himself—and eventually Hutch—that he hadn't wanted to bring it up for fear of taking Hutch's power away. He had said that he hadn't wanted to force Hutch into disclosing something he wasn't ready to talk about. But that been a blatant lie.

Marcus, the Charred Man, and even Hutch had accused Starsky of obstinately avoiding things he didn't want to see, though Starsky denied it, he had known then—as he did now—that was the truth. After all, he was who was and he was powerless to be anything else.

Looking at the basement door, Starsky felt the warmth of the sun on his back; it was a welcome comfort. It renewed his certainty and awakened his determination. It all seemed so simple, so right, somehow. He had to go forward because there was no going back, but he couldn't move from this place, he couldn't allow Blaine and Dobey to take him, without talking to Hutch one last time.

Extending a shaking hand, he watched numbly as his fingers touched the knob of the top deadbolt. Moving as though disjointed from the rest of his body, they caressed the cold medal before gripping it tight. The locks made solid clinking sounds as they were turned, but fingers gripping the final deadbolt the only sound Starsky heard was the sound of his breath as he forced himself not to consider what was being contained behind the poorly placed locks, for fear that his determination would be shattered by overbearing terror. He couldn't be afraid; right now, he needed to be brave. He needed to muster enough strength to open the door, take the first step, and allow the darkness of the stairwell to engulf him.

 _"David,"_ The memory of Hutch's words echoed in his ears. " _There are some things in this world that people are destined never to know or understand. My absence is one of those things, the basement is another. I need you to promise me that you will never go down there."_

"Sorry, babe," Starsky whispered as he grasped the doorknob. "But we both know this is one promise I never intended to keep."

Set tightly in its frame, the door was difficult to open. He had to press his shoulder against it and propel his body-weight forward in order for it to finally budge, and it when it did move, it groaned in protest, filling the air with an elongated creaking noise. Pursing his lips, he hesitated for the briefest of moments, his body buzzing with a knee-jerk desire to flee, but his mind remained focused on the task at hand. He wouldn't run now—he couldn't run. He had come too far to turn back now.

Crumbling and decrepit, the stairwell was impossibly dark; an almost solid blackness occupied the area beyond the first step, filling it with a tangible sense of agony and oppression. Yet, the darkness was familiar and comforting. Reaching out, it enveloped Starsky's body and he felt his dread shift, transforming into an odd sense of acceptance.

There was no stopping now, no going forward or back.

His footsteps echoed as he descended the stairs. He couldn't see where he was going but grasping the handrail tightly he paid the darkness little mind. Oddly, he didn't think of anything at all. His mind was blank; his body moved automatically, legs and feet numbly completing step after step. Descending into the darkness, he felt a coldness touch his body, peppering his skin with goosebumps and filling his chest with sudden icy fear. He shouldn't be here; whatever Hutch was hiding down here wasn't meant to be seen. But, still, he put one foot in front of the other, forcing himself to go forward because he knew he couldn't go back.

Reaching the bottom of the staircase, he found the space obscured, hidden by a reflective, fluid blackness. Blinking rapidly, he squinted into the darkness surrounding him as he struggled to comprehend how the staircase to their basement could lead him where it had. He had never been to this place and yet it was familiar. The floor was soft, buoyant and pliant beneath his feet; he felt disoriented and his legs shook under his weight as the foul thickness of the air threatened to suffocate him. The air was wet, permeated with an overpowering earthy smell—moldy dirt and rotting wood—intermixed with a profane, rotten odor.

 _"You should turn around,"_ a voice whispered. Calm and monotone, its unfamiliar tenor snaked through the air. _"Leave this place while you still can."_

"Hutch?" Starsky asked.

 _"If you will not turn around, if you will not leave while you can, then you must take another step."_

Though he didn't recognize the voice, Starsky did what he was told. Inhaling deeply, he choked on the breath. The air was becoming heavy and foul, soured by horrific things that shouldn't exist. Some he could define and others were too terrible to understand, too frightening to draw attention to. He couldn't see where he was going, the room was too dark, the air too stifling to allow such a thing. The ground was becoming uneven and slippery; he felt his feet slide dubiously as each jagged step swayed his body, bringing him dangerously close to falling into the devastating uncertainty of the unknown. But his feet continued on. He couldn't go back. They could never go back.

Manic voices surrounded him. Hushed, gritty and elongated, their words where indecipherable as haunting whispers overlapped, negating whatever messages they were intent on sharing. Cutting through the darkness, their insistence consumed everything, and Starsky felt, rather than saw, the room shrink around him as the sound devoured all it touched.

Heart pounding in his chest, he was overcome by fear and dread as the room threatened to consume him. The whispers were changing, morphing into an inhuman, elongated shriek. Something terrible was coming, something horrid that refused to be stopped. He jumped as the shrieking intensified and became painfully high pitched; he pressed his hands against his ears, certain they would bleed any moment from the damaging sound. His dread was growing now, transforming into crippling despair.

"Hutch?" he asked, his voice quaking. He was desperate for an answer, anxious to know he wasn't alone in the darkness that surrounded him. He closed his eyes as he felt invisible hands clench his shoulders, squeezing them insistently. Something terrible had come. It stood in front of him waiting to consume him into its depths. "Hutch please tell me where you are!"

The ground dipped and swayed beneath his feet, throwing him off balance and sending him tumbling forward. Arms trapped at his sides, he felt himself falling for minutes before he hit earth. Head ricocheting off the hard ground, he saw stars in his vision as the breath was knocked from his chest, leaving him choking on a fresh cloud of dust. Groaning painfully, he clenched his head and blinked rapidly, struggling to comprehend or deny what he saw.

He was no longer in the basement—he wasn't in a building at all. The sun beat down on him; its rays highlighted the dryness of the lifeless field surrounding him. Dry and desolate, the landscape was terrifyingly familiar.

Stomach fluttering, he sprang to his feet and turned frantically in place, struggling to deny the truth of where he was. There was movement in the distance, tumbleweeds that were being blown haphazardly by the wind. They prompted his gaze to follow them and he set his eyes on something he longed to have never have seen. Standing tall, surrounded by tools and excess building supplies was a farmhouse, an exact replica of the home where Simon Marcus had once lived.

"No!" he screamed. Turning in place once more, his eyes locked onto the entry to bunker he had been held captive in by Simon Marcus years ago. Sitting paces away, its lid was agape, its steel glistening under the afternoon sun. It seemed to be waiting for something—or someone, rather—to descend into its deep depths and close the lid. Overwhelmed by panic, he nearly tripped as he took a frantic step back. He couldn't be here; he had promised himself that he would never return to this property—to this place. He couldn't handle being _here_ again. "This isn't happening; this can't be real! This is another nightmare. I'm dreaming and I want to wake up!"

"You are awake," a deep voice behind him said. "You are more awake now than you have ever been."

Eyes widening, Starsky rapidly turned just as a fist connected with his temple. Body swaying, his vision exploded in an array of purple and black dots. Pain radiated through the side of his head and down his neck as another punch followed the first, knocking him from his feet and sending tumbling backwards on the ground. Feeling blood trickle from his forehead, he looked up at his attacker and for a moment he wondered why Hutch had hit him so hard—or why he had hit him at all—then, as unconsciousness overcame him, he wondered nothing at all.

Xx

The forest was penetrated by darkness. Devoured by fire, the land was devastated, scorched as far as the eye could see. Thick, gray ash clung to the ground, intermixing with toppled charred branches laying among the bottoms of the soaring skeletal trees.

Feet sinking into the sharp debris, Starsky's wide eyes remained locked on the outline of the object before him. Fists clenched at his sides, he was unnerved by the silence surrounding him. The forest was still and unsettlingly quiet, and uneasiness gathering in the pit of his stomach, he longed for the charred man's presence—the burned body who visited him in his previous dreams. But he was deserted in this dream, left alone to contend with vastness of the foreboding woods, abandoned as he stared aimlessly at the entry to the bunker.

Eyes locked on the steel lid, he sucked his bottom lip between his teeth and chewed on it firmly. The notion of entering the bunker was absurd and panic inducing. He couldn't tolerate the dark dankness of the claustrophobic room hidden beneath the earth. He couldn't imagine a time or situation where he would voluntarily descend into its depths, but his body moved despite his determination to remain grounded in place.

The only other alternative was to wake up and who knew what was waiting for him once he dared open his eyes? Hutch would be there, he knew that for sure. But what version of Hutch would he be presented with? The familiar man he had once known and loved, or the horrific stranger who had allowed Fate to change him?

The bunker's steel handle felt cold in his fist as he hosted it over its rusted hinges, filling the air with a grinding elongated screech. The abrasive noise seemed to echo through the forest, grating on his nerves and embedding itself into his brain as he dropped the bunker lid to thud heavily on the ground. Surrounded by crumbling cement walls, the entrance of the bunker was old and decrepit, decidedly different than the one he had been held in on the Marcus Compound. It looked unmaintained, abandoned and forgotten in the belly of the forest. An old ladder clung precariously to an inside wall, hung by rust covered fixtures that seemed to shake and moan in protest of even being looked at. The bunker was too dark to allow anything in it to be seen, but Starsky heard the sound of quiet crying emerge from the depths of the darkness.

For a moment, he wondered if he was imagining the sound. If, so unnerved by the prospect of being alone, his delusional mind was creating someone to keep him company in his dreams. Tilting his head curiously, he listened intently. The sobs were soft and heart-wrenching; low, unobtrusive cries of devastated resignation that filled the air. Holding his hand protectively in front of him, Starsky took a step back—not so much unnerved by the prospect of someone crying in the bottom of the bunker, rather by the youthfulness of the sound. He was not imagining this—whatever responsibly he had for creating his dreams, his subconscious mind was not culpable for presenting him with this.

There was child in the bunker; alone in the darkness, their sobs resonated through the night air.

"No," Starsky whispered, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. Taking a step back he shook his head in an overwhelmed fashion as though the movement would guard him from the knowledge he knew he was helpless to dispute.

He had dreamed of this place before—ever since discovering the charred man, Starsky had dreamed of the man's body and this place. The man had tried—again and again had he tried—to convince him to enter the bunker, but Starsky had been too afraid of his own past—too haunted by his time with Simon Marcus and fate—to take the first step.

 _He chose for both of you_ , the charred man had said, speaking of Hutch's decision to embrace Fate as he previously prompted Starsky to enter the foreboding bunker of his dreams. _And in time you will brave enough to understand why._

"I'm not brave enough," Starsky whispered, responding to the memory of the words, as the child's cries echoed in his ears. But, still, he took a step forward, bringing his feet mere centimeters from the crumbling lip of the bunker. "I know why Hutch did what he did, why he chose Fate over me. I don't need to see it; I don't need to see him like this to understand what happened to him or how his pain led him to become who he is."

And though he said the words, his body moved. He couldn't deny what had brought them there. This was the depraved event—a horrific memory—that had started it all. He could no longer ignore the buried pain that had facilitated the purposeful unraveling of the life he and Hutch had once shared because despite all the lies the truth remained. Refusing to face what happened didn't make the events non-existent, it didn't mean that past pain didn't prompt behavior, that the past trauma didn't have a massive impact on how Hutch had chosen to live his life.

They had to go forward because they couldn't go back; Starsky couldn't run from the truth—he couldn't run at all.

The ladder groaned as he stepped upon it, resentfully accepting his weight. Hands clenching the sides, his feet slipped on the narrow bars as he descended into the bunker's depths. The further down he traveled the better lit his surroundings became, and when he finally planted his feet firmly on the cement flooring, he turned and squinted into the white beam of a flashlight. He lifted his forearm, blocking his eyes from the abrasive light and taking in details of the bunker. The room was small. The low ceiling was domed, connecting crumbling curved walls. The air was musty and thick, scented of mold and rot, blood and unsavory bodily excretions; it permeated his chest, encumbering his lungs with each breath he forced himself to take. The confines of the bunker were hauntingly familiar and painfully new; it was everything he had dreadfully anticipated and worse than he could have ever imagined.

Sitting, his back pressed against the far bunker wall, a small boy was immobile. No longer crying, he sniffled sporadically as he clutched a childish, yellow and red flashlight in his palms. The lightbulb was aimed at the crumbling ceiling and he turned the knob on the side of the base, slowly transforming the white light streaming from the lightbulb an array of colors. Blue, green, red, and then back to white again.

"That's a nice flashlight you have there," Starsky said softly the words escaping before he could think of how they could be received. He startled the boy, who looked at him with wide eyes before stubbornly holding his gaze. "My brother and I had one just like it," he finished lamely, taking small, purposeful steps toward the boy. He moved slowly, his arms locked to his sides. He didn't want to scare the boy any more than he already had, but he couldn't stand the space between them.

"I don't like it," the boy said, his scratchy youthful tone hinting at the deep, gravelly voice it would one day become. "It's a baby's toy." He pointed his small index finger at the red Playskool label on the yellow hilt. "But I don't like the dark," he added the soft statement almost as an afterthought.

"Me either," Starsky admitted, his brows furrowing painfully. He felt a surge of anger then grief. He was furious at the past and frustrated with himself. All the time he had spent running away was meaningless. The truth was still the truth, his obstinate avoidance hadn't changed anything.

The truth was not fluid—wasn't that what Hutch had said?— it was stagnate, unchanged by his inability to acknowledge or accept it. And this little boy was Hutch's truth; the long buried trauma that had shaped who he was, the horrible secret Richard Hutchinson had tried so hard to ensure remained hidden forever.

"Why are you here?" the boy asked.

"I don't know." Starsky shrugged numbly. He was helpless to provide an acceptable answer. Given the choice, he wouldn't have come down here at all. Even with the charred man's persistent encouragement he had avoided entering this bunker because he expected to be presented with his own demons, his own terrifying memories of what had been done in the darkness; he had never wanted—never expected—to be exposed to deepest pain of someone else. There were so many other things he would have rather seen than this.

Towering, at just over six feet as an adult, Starsky had assumed Hutch had always been large, sturdy and tall, muscular and weighted. But at seven years old, Cameron Hutchinson was small for his age, petite and short. Sitting on the dirt covered floor, his torso was unclothed, his lower body was wrapped in dark blanket that didn't cover his filthy bare feet, and on his ankle was a chain, anchoring him to the ground. His body was battered; his face was swollen, scratched and dirty; his hair was matted, but his eyes Starsky would have recognize anywhere, familiar blue orbs that glistened in the moonlight.

"Did you come to hurt me, too?" Cameron asked.

"Of course not," Starsky breathed, his gaze frozen on the deep cut on the boy's collarbone.

Though the cut would heal, the scar would remain, fading with time, and easily explained with yet another lie _. I wrecked my bike when I was kid, Starsk,_ Hutch would eventually say when asked about it. _No big deal._ But seeing the fresh wound carved into the boy's flesh, clotted with dried thick blood, Starsky was overcome with the truth: It was a big deal. Everything that had taken place in the depths of this bunker would always be a very big deal.

"I heard you crying," he added, forcing a smile. He wanted to look away, to close his eyes and open them again to find he had left this place—he couldn't bear what he was seeing; he couldn't tolerate the brutality of it all.—but he forced himself to look at the boy, to memorize every agonizing detail, every visible scratch, every black bruise. "I came to help you."

"You can't help me." Brows furrowing, Cameron's eyes darted nervously around the confining room. "And I can't talk to you."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not supposed to talk to strangers."

Starsky almost laughed at the absurdity of the claim. The boy was feigning control, displaying obstinate bravery in an effort to disguise his fear—a habit that would accompany him well into adulthood.

"I'm not a stranger," he whispered earnestly, crouching in front of the boy. "You don't know it now, but, you and I are tight. We're best friends."

"You're too old to be my best friend."

"Right now, sure, but once you grow up, I won't be too old. I'm only seven months older than you."

Reaching his hand to comfortingly grasp Cameron's shoulder, Starsky hesitated as the boy's courage evaporated. Dropping the flashlight, he pressed his hands against his ears and his small body against the wall.

"I'm sorry," Starsky whispered, his hand lingering in the air. "I didn't mean to scare you. I'm not going to hurt you. I would _never_ hurt you."

Lip quivering, Cameron stared at the floor; inhaling a series of sharp breaths through his nostrils, his chest heaved as he struggled to maintain his composure. "I don't believe you," he managed, eventually, his soft voice thick with tears. "You're just like the rest of them, my dad, my mom, you say that you love me, but you don't. You say you'd never hurt me, but you will. And I deserve it, I know I do. Uncle Kenneth, he told me so. You don't have to tell me again."

"He told you what?" Starsky asked uneasily. "And how do you know anything about me?" He was no longer sure if they were discussing the past or the present. If Cameron was making blind, inadvertent statements about the current state of their relationship or if he was somehow privy to the truth. Starsky had lied; he treated Hutch poorly and pushed him toward Fate. But how would this little boy know any of that? "Listen to me," he urged. "No matter what anyone tells you, none of this, _nothing_ that happened down here, is your fault."

"It is."

"It's not."

"It is," Cameron said. Wiping his grimy fists over his watery eyes, his voice was suddenly firm and familiar. "Life consists of choices, one right after another. Some we make purposefully and others unconsciously and every action leads us to the place we are meant to go. You've seen enough of this place, of me like this. I think you should wake up now."

"What?" Starsky scoffed breathlessly, startled by the words spilling from the boy's mouth. The notion of leaving was intolerable; he had only just worked up the courage to enter the bunker, he couldn't leave now. He couldn't abandon Cameron—even if this was nothing more than a dream. "No," he said, startling even himself with the ferocity of the word. "I'm not going to leave you. Not here. Not like this."

"There's nothing you can do about this. It's already been done." Cameron's voice was transforming, becoming stronger and deeper with each word. "You did what I was hoping you would; you summoned the courage to finally find me in the dark."

"It isn't enough," Starsky whispered.

"You can't change the past; you can't change this." While Cameron's mouth moved, it was Hutch's deep, masculine tenor that was filling the air. "But if you remember that you have a choice, then maybe you can change something else. You have to wake up."

"No," Starsky whispered. The room swayed and his vision blurred despite his protest. Slowly, he became aware of his body in a different space. He felt cold, hard floorboards beneath his back; his head pounded relentlessly, churning his stomach with sicken mixture of pain and grief. He didn't want to wake up; he didn't want to leave Cameron in the darkness; and he didn't want to face the uncertain reality that was waiting for him once his opened his eyes.

"David, wake up," Hutch's voice prompted as the bunker disappeared, transforming fragmented gray haze.

His voice was gentle, and comforting and grounding. Starsky wanted nothing more than to open his eyes and find that captive to another nightmare, he had fallen out of bed. Hutch would be kneeling beside him, patiently waiting to envelope him into his strong arms.

"Stop avoiding what you do not want to see," Hutch continued. "You know you cannot stay unconscious forever. And why would you want to? You must wake up; you must summon the courage to face that which you still do not want to see."

Groaning softly, Starsky opened his eyes and blinked blearily as he stared up at a ceiling he readily recognized.

A sliver of moonlight peeked through the window; the second story bedroom was illuminated by an oil lamp sitting in the middle of the room. Its flames cast eerie shadows on the walls as they burned brightly, dancing playfully on the wick, despite the cool dampness of the room.

"Ah, shit," Starsky moaned.

The little boy hidden in the bunker in the forest may have been a dream, but knew this room—this house—was not. He was in the farmhouse on the Marcus Compound and, yet, he wasn't. The land could no longer be described as Marcus's property because Simon Marcus was dead. And though the house looked the same, it was different. It was new. The air smelled earthy, penetrated with pleasing scents of unstained hardwood and freshly cut two-by-fours. Still, he recognized the room. It was the same space he had awoken in years ago to find Marcus watching him curiously.

Pressing his hands to sides of his head, he was startled by the slickness clinging to his hairline and seeping down the sides of his face. Grimacing, he pulled his hands back and stared at them numbly; his fingertips were dripping with blood.

"David," Hutch's voice cut through the air. Crossing his arms, he paced the room. His body was rigid, his expression guarded as his solid footsteps echoed through the hollow room. "I told you not to come here."

For a moment, Starsky didn't know what to say; he didn't know what to think about the bunker in the forest or the little boy he had met in his dream. Hutch hadn't been in his dream but he had, and Starsky struggled to reconcile the battered boy he had seen in the forest bunker with the man standing before him. The things Cameron had said couldn't have come from a seven year-old boy, and it was Hutch's voice that had prompted him to wake up.

"Did you show me that forest?" Starsky whispered. "Did you lead me that bunker?" _To you_? he wanted to add but the words died on his lips.

"I did. In the same way Simon Marcus once made you dream, I did as well," Hutch said simply. His voice was monotone and calm; he sounded detached, as though he was playing a part and reciting a memorized monologue, the words of which had very little to do with him. "I gave you visions of the forest and what was in it. It was your choice what to do with them, to enter the bunker or avoid the past and leave it behind."

"I don't understand," Starsky said as Hutch's explanation fell short.

"Perhaps, it is not for you to understand."

"But why would you do that? Why would you…?" Starsky hesitated, struggling to form the correct words. He didn't understand why Hutch would choice to _show_ rather than _explain_ to him the trauma he had endured so many years ago. "Why would you show that to me?" he asked. "After all the time you spent hiding your past, why would you want me to see you like that?"

"After all the time you spent avoiding the bunker in the forest, why would you enter it now?" Hutch countered. "Why would you enter our basement after I warned you not to?"

"Because... life consists of choices," Starsky murmured—absently but uncertainly repeating Cameron's odd words. Cameron had said that Starsky had done what he had hoped he would: he had finally summoned the courage to find him in the dark. But what was the difference between discovering Cameron in a bunker in his dreams and summoning the courage to follow Hutch into the depths of their basement? Was there one? Or were the two events somehow one in the same?

"It does. At any given time, our current reality is the culmination of every choice we make." Pausing in front of Starsky, Hutch stared down at him. "I showed you the bunker in the forest because I needed you to understand what had happened. I needed you to realize that the person I eventually became what not who I was destined to be."

"Then who are you?" Starsky breathed, a familiar thickness gathering at the base of his throat. He wanted to scream and cry, to run from the room, from the house and the property and never look back. Hutch's explanation was all wrong—everything about this moment felt _wrong_. "What have you become?"

Hutch smiled. "I am a monster according to you."

Inhaling sharply, Starsky stared at the floor guilty. He had said those words—over and over he had—but he wasn't sure he still believed them. His certainty had faded, dissipated to make room for the courage that had allowed him to enter the basement. He hadn't thought Hutch was a monster then, if he had he wouldn't have been able to unlock the deadbolts or walk down the stairs. No, then he had _known_ that Hutch wasn't the only one to blame. His conversations with Fate and Cameron were circling his brain, their words were becoming intertwined and fragmented and leaving him feeling conflicted and confused. He had thought Hutch was a monster, but he didn't anymore. They had both made choices that had brought them here; Hutch had lied and Starsky had, too. Hutch had been silently captive to the defining moments of his childhood and Starsky had, too. But if Hutch had given him dreams, if he had placed him in that forest, what else had he covertly ensured was done? What was Starsky's affinity for Cameron Stark, the charred man, born from?

"What about the burned man?" Starsky whispered. "Are you him, too? The only time I ever dreamed of him was in that forest. If you gave me the dreams of that place, if you spoke to me just now through that dream, did you speak to me through him, too?"

"No. He was a gift. You said you were alone, that you did not feel as though you had any friends." Hutch shrugged, his voice softening. "I could not tolerate you feeling that way, so I gave you someone you could speak freely to in your dreams. I wanted, _needed_ , you to know that you were not alone."

"I wasn't alone," Starsky breathed. "I always had you."

Hutch looked conflicted, and heart clenching in his chest, Starsky wondered if he was going to contradict his statement—if he would dare call him on such a blatant lie. Hutch had been by his side but he hadn't been present—not really. All along he had been answering to Fate.

"Right," Hutch said softly, his eyes flickering and tone unconvincing. Pausing in the middle of the room he inhaled deeply, holding the breath for several beats before exhaling and clearing his throat. "For what it is worth, I am sorry I returned to you after disappearing for weeks. If presented with that choice now I would not make the same decision."

"Don't tell me that, not now. Not after everything that's happened, not with..." _Everything that's still to come_.

"It is the truth, albeit an uncomfortable and inconvenient one, but it is worthy of being admitted nonetheless."

 _What else was worthy of being admitted?_ The unasked question reverberated through Starsky's skull. Body trembling, he looked at his hands; sliding one bloody palm over the other, he noted wounds he hadn't noticed before. Deep, sporadic scratches marred the backs, his knuckles were angry, swollen and grazed; they were offensive wounds, telltale injuries that hinted of an earlier fight. Callie Baker was dead as where six felons and Blaine and Dobey were coming for him.

"You know what was done," Hutch said. "You only pretend that you do not. You conveniently look away when the truth becomes too much. And life unfolds around you when you are least expecting it to. When you try hardest to run away from yourself that is the exact time you become who you really are. In the same way I once walked with Simon Marcus you walked with me. You did what I told you to do."

"Why did you come back?" Starsky demanded bitterly. He couldn't believe Hutch's tranquil explanation for events so horrifying he couldn't even put them into words. Callie Baker was dead, as where six felons but Starsky wasn't responsible for that. He _couldn't_ be responsible for their deaths, he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he was. But despite his fervent denial, the truth remained. Hutch had given him dreams and a figment of a friend, but what where the cost of those things? What had Hutch explored him to do when he was asleep and unaware of himself? "Why did you bring me to this place? Why did you make me _this_ way?"

"I did not want to."

"Then why did you?" Pulling his body off the floor, Starsky stood, his eyes flashing with anger as he held Hutch's calm gaze. "Why did you come back? Why do anything that you did after you came back? For fuck sake you _married_ me, Hutch! You stood by and you let me think—you let the whole world _think_ —that I was the unstable one, that I was the one with the problem, when it was you making me that way. How could you do that to _me_?"

"Because life consists of choices. One right after another. Some we make purposefully and others unconsciously and every action leads us to the place we are meant to go."

"You could have left and you could have stayed gone! If what you say is true, if it's true that you don't love me, that your _affinity_ for me is gone, then why come back? Why would you remain by my side through _everything_ we've been through in the last two years if you never _wanted_ to come back?"

"I never said that I did not love you."

"You're so full of _shit_! I know you don't love me. How the hell could you, why the fuck would you, after everything that's happened between us?" Inhaling guiltily, Starsky tilted his head. "This isn't all about you," he added stubbornly. "It's about me, too. I had a hand in how we got here. I lied, too. I pushed you away. After Simon Marcus I ran from you because that's what I do when the truth hurts too much. I know that this is my fault, too."

Lips forming a conflicted line, Hutch's brows furrowed "Oh, David," he sighed, a moment later, his voice nearly inaudible. "You do not know, but soon you will."

"No," Starsky scoffed. "No more of this talking in circles bullshit. I came here, didn't I? I finally summoned the courage to follow you into the dark. I want to know what you know _now_."

"I cannot tell you, now."

"Why not?"

"Because there are still more choices to come. How can I began to explain anything to you when your future actions remain so unclear?"

"What do you know about the future?" Starsky asked. Hutch's knowledge of events and secrets couldn't extend beyond the past and present, could it? He wasn't Fate, how could he possibly know what was to come?

"Only what you do," Hutch said. "As I said, there are still choices to come."

"That tells me nothing."

"It should tell you _everything_." Shoulders squared, Hutch's eyes were uncharacteristically bright. "Do not dismiss your dreams so quickly," he said. His was voice low and gravelly but there was a hint of desperation in his tone. "You cannot change the past, but you always have a choice in how the future unfolds." Looking between the open door and Starsky, he closed the gap between them. Gripping Starsky's shoulders, he tilted his head, lowering his voice to a nearly inaudible whisper as though he was entrusting a sordid secret he was afraid would be overheard. "Do not leave this room until I come for you."

"But—"

"I _mean it_ this time. You should not have come down here. It was not what Fate wanted; there is no predicting what her repercussions for your actions will be, and I cannot protect you anymore."

"Can't or won't?" Starsky challenged angrily as Hutch left the room. His question went unanswered, however, as Hutch's form was quickly disguised by the black darkness of the hallway.

TBC


	56. Chapter Fifty-Six

Starsky huffed a deep breath, clutching his lacerated hands into tight fists at his sides, as he paced from one end of the bedroom to the other. Sitting in the middle of the room, the flame of the oil lamp flickered forebodingly, adding to his nervous discontent. A thousand unanswered questions rushed through his mind, questions about how he ended up on the Marcus Compound by entering the staircase to their basement and why Hutch would bring him to this bedroom to anxiously await whatever happened next.

Why would Hutch bother to rebuild the farmhouse at all? The house had been devastated—lost to the hungry flames of an insatiable fire that had been born the night Hutch had killed Simon Marcus. Why would Hutch want to rebuild something that had been destroyed so purposely?

 _Perhaps, it isn't for you to understand_.

The silence of the room echoed Hutch's earlier words and Starsky snorted in reply. Reaching the far end of the room, he pivoted his body, resting his weight on one leg as he turned in place and paused as his gaze froze on the darkness just beyond the open door. Hutch had said not to leave the room, but Starsky knew that he couldn't abide by the order. Though he still lingered in the bedroom, he knew his hesitation couldn't last for long.

As Hutch—and Cameron—had said: life consisted of choices, and Starsky was tired of making the wrong ones.

Striding across the room, he stopped in the doorway, the tips of his shoes lingering in the darkness of the hallway. Grimacing, he turned his head rapidly, struggling to discern something—anything—in the space beyond the door. But the hallway was too dark to allow such a thing. He was used to darkness—he had been living in its shadows since Simon Marcus's death, but this darkness was different than the one he had become accustomed to behind the walls of his own home and in his dreams. This was a new darkness; somehow more black, foreboding, and threatening than anything he had contended with before. It sparked his apprehension and filled him with fear.

Did he really kill those felons?

Tilting his head, the inevitable question froze him in place. Was he really responsible for their horrific deaths? And what about Callie Baker, had he killed her, too? Had he, captive to something beyond his control, done exactly what Hutch had insinuated he had? And why had the felons been murdered at all? What correlation had bound them in life, what actions had ensured that they would be so violently killed, marred with the scar on their cheeks that would forever mark them in death?

Touching his cheek, Starsky's heart fluttered as his fingertips grazed perfect skin peppered with short beard growth. He had had a scar and now he didn't, but his hands remained scratched, angry, swollen, and covered in blood.

Hutch had said that Starsky had chosen this. While his tone had been angry, his eyes had been _accusing_ —Starsky had known then, as he did now, that Hutch hadn't made the decision to accept Fate into his heart alone.

"I'm sorry, Hutch," Starsky whispered into the darkness. He wasn't expecting the words to be heard, but he had to say them. He had to give a voice to the grief setting into his chest for fear that it would cripple him, leaving him unable to face whatever was destined to come next. "Babe, I am _so_ sorry that I didn't know how to love you like I should have. I'm sorry I pushed you away, that I left you to deal with the aftermath of killing Marcus and losing your career alone. I'm sorry that I abandoned you with the truth of what you did, that I ignored what I didn't want to see and left you alone to shoulder the truth."

Closing his eyes tightly, he struggled to ignore his guilt, but it consumed him, leaving his legs trembling as the weight of the truth threatened to suffocate him. There was no way out of this—there would be no way out.

Guided by Fate, Hutch was a monster; six felons were dead as was Callie Baker, seven brutal murders that Blaine and Dobey believed — and Hutch had all but said— Starsky was responsible for. Even if he could somehow save Hutch, if he could break Fate's hold and convince Hutch to return to their peaceful lives—he wouldn't be able to save himself from the consequences of what had been done. There would be no returning to the past, no avoiding the speculation—or truth. Dobey and Blaine would arrest him for the gruesome murders of six men and one woman, and if a jury didn't convict him then the public would.

One way or another, Starsky would always be accountable—he would always be _responsible_ —for the horrors that had taken place.

"I don't know what to do," he whispered. Irrepressible tears stung the back of his throat as the words left his chest in a wet, shaky breath. He didn't know who he was talking to; who he hoping would hear his pleas. "Just tell me what to do. Tell me how I can fix this. _Please_ , just tell me—"His words died on a deep-chested sob. He didn't want to think about this—the violent reality Hutch and Fate had crafted while he held himself captive to contrived mental instability and merciless fear. "J-just… tell me what to _do_. I don't know what to do."

"You cannot move from this place if you refuse to take the next step," a voice whispered. Calm and monotone, its quiet tenor snaked through the darkness, reaching Starsky's ears in melodic hiss.

Starsky took a step back as something moved in the hallway. He recognized the voice before the body, it belonged neither to Hutch, nor Fate, nor the charred man, but he had heard it before. This figure had shown itself to him before, once in the alley after discovering its ghastly remains, then again as he lay captive to his anxiety in an overly loud CT machine.—It had been the voice he had heard when descending the basement stairs. First, it had told him to turn back, then, it had prompted him to move forward.

The figure walked towards him, emerging slowly from the depths of the darkness, it was a man's decaying form illuminated by the transparent sheen of his rotting flesh. Standing tall on frail bones, the man assessed him with opaque, lifeless eyes. Cuts marred the figure in crisscross patterns, thin strips of decaying muscle and skin hanging precariously from the patterns carved in its flesh.

"Who are you?" Starsky asked, cringing as he was overcome by the stupidity of the question. He knew who this man was—who he had been in life and how he had died. It was Matthew Avery, the first of felons to vanish then be found.

Avery smiled, an unsettling sight. Hairless, his face was hollow; discolored decomposing skin outlined his skull in horrific detail. "You do not remember me?"

"No," Starsky said, the word not so much of a lie as a dreadful reaction to the man standing paces away.

"You should."

Closing his eyes tightly, Starsky inhaled a deep breath. There was no sense in lying now; no point in concealing something they both already knew. "I-I remember you."

"Who do you belong to?"

"What?" Starsky gasped, unnerved by the repetitive question. He had been asked it so many times now, but he still found himself blindly grasping for the correct reply.

"You knew the answer the last time we spoke," Avery said. "You knew then what you struggle to recall now. Why is that? Why is your certainty so fragmented? Why are you still so avoidant of everything you already know?"

"I don't know."

"You do. There is no way out of this, not for him, not for you. Everything worth having always comes at a price, and the time has come for Fate demand you pay yours."

"How are you here?" Starsky asked. He took a step backwards as Avery entered the bedroom. " _Why_ are you here?"

Circling Starsky, Avery considered him thoughtfully. The clicking of his knees—bone grinding against bone with a painful, sickening snap—was mesmerizing, freezing Starsky in place as his stomach muscles clenched in fear. He didn't want to see this man. He didn't want to think about the truths that would emerge by speaking to someone he shouldn't have had a reason to recognize.

"How are you here?" Avery asked in a gleefully sinister tone. "You were in the basement of your home and now you are here, on a compound miles away, surrounded by desolate land and captive to contrived dread and fear. Tell me, what is holding _you_ in this place? What is preventing you from leaving this room, this house, this property?"

"Hutch told me to stay," Starsky said, his determination to leave the room fading, frightened away by the vision of the dead man in front of him. He shouldn't be here; neither one of them should be where they were.

"And you are always so eager to do as you are told. You bend so easily to comply with your husband's will."

"No. I—"

"You could have allowed Blaine and Dobey to take you and that would have been the end. But you went looking for him. You sought Hutch out and now you refuse to leave this room. You refused to leave him even though you knew what he had done, what he had allowed himself to become. You knew how his kinship with Fate transformed him and how it transformed you, and, yet, you still refused to leave him."

"I didn't know," Starsky whispered, though he knew his words were a lie. He knew—deep in the depths of his mind, he had always _known_ —what Hutch had done. He had always been privy to the terrible things his love for Hutch had prompted Hutch to do. Wasn't that the dreadful statement he had been taunted with over and over again? Starsky knew that it was, but it wasn't until this moment that he understood that the statement was right but the words were wrong. After Simon Marcus's death, Starsky's love for Hutch had set him on a path to become a monster, but Hutch's love for Starsky had done the same.

"You did."

"I did," Starsky agreed solemnly as tears threatened to overcome him. He couldn't lie to this dead man—he couldn't lie to himself. There was a price attached to secrets and he could no longer tolerate the overbearing, suffocating weight he had endured while trying to keep all his secrets contained. After all, someone always had to privy to the truth.

There was no point to hiding anymore—no purpose of denying what they had become. Blaine and Dobey were coming for him; it was only a matter of time before everyone knew what he had known all along.

"You have no idea," Avery taunted. "You have no idea what _you've_ done. What _your_ love for him has led _you_ to do."

"No, I know what I did," Starsky whispered thickly, his body quaking under the weight of his words. Twin tears trailed down his cheeks as they unearthed a cluster of images he had long buried, flashes of memories that he hadn't wanted to admit he had. He closed his eyes and ran his shaking, blood-covered hands through his hair as he was overcome by quick, gut-wrenching, successive images he wished he could have told himself where nothing more than residual memories of a bad dream. "I don't want to know what I did—I don't want to know you—but, _Christ,_ I do."

"You do," Avery assured. "I was first. You always remember the one that comes first."

Opening his eyes, Starsky stared at Avery numbly, sickened by the dead man's wide grin. "I would have remembered it anyway," he said. "It doesn't matter who came first or second or third. You can't forget stuff like that; you can't run away from it no matter how hard you try. You were the first but you weren't the last. Time after time, I walked with Hutch; I did what he told me to do."

"You were very quiet that night," Avery hissed cheerfully as he took great joy in unearthing a joint-memory from months ago. "You couldn't have looked more out of place in that bar if you tried. It was late, you looked so awkward walking through the front door. And you sat in the corner booth, drinking alone, hiding yourself under that old Oakland A's hat. You didn't look like someone who wanted to be bothered…"

"I didn't want to be bothered," Starsky admitted absently, captive to the memory of the last night Matthew Avery had been seen alive—something he should have had no reason to remember but couldn't seem to forget. "I thought if I just sat there alone then maybe it wouldn't have to be the way it was, then maybe Hutch would change his mind and I wouldn't have to do what I had been brought there to do…"

"…so imagine my surprise when you were the one who approached me."

"…but there was no helping it," Starsky finished, the memory rushing back full-force. "Nothing could change that Fate wanted blood, or what Hutch was going to make sure was done. It was so dark that night." He shrugged. "Or morning, I guess. But it was late, cold and dark no matter what time you want to call it. He woke me up out of a dead sleep, said we had somewhere to be. I didn't want to get out of bed; I didn't even have the energy to get dressed. He picked clothes out for me, helped me put them on and then we left and headed for someplace we never should have been. He picked you out before we even walked into that shitty bar. He parked in the back alley, not far from where your body was found; we sat in the front seat of his pickup truck and he told me what we were going to do. He knew your name, all the awful things you had done. That was his hat I was wearing that night. He wore it first, then took it off and put on my head, pulled the bill down low to keep me from being recognized, and sent me in."

"But he followed you, eventually."

"I took too long. I couldn't work up the nerve to approach you. He came in to make sure I did what I supposed to do. He sat in a booth by himself, ordered a drink and just…watched me. His eyes were so dark and angry; it felt like they were burning holes through my body, withering my skin, and, finally, when I couldn't take the pain anymore, I got up and I spoke to you."

"He marked me," Avery said indignantly.

"You marked yourself." Starsky's voice was quiet but bitter and fierce. "Fate wanted blood and Hutch wasn't in a position to deny her that. He chose you and the others, but he picked all of you for a _damn_ good reason."

"It wasn't his right."

"He, of all people, had the right! You were a monster, Avery. You hurt people—you sexually assaulted _kids_ —you were arrested, tried and convicted of the same crimes as the rest of the felons Hutch picked. You served your sentence and then you were released. But just because the state said that you paid your debt to society it doesn't make what you did okay. Your victims—those kids—have to live every day of the rest of their lives with what you did to them. It doesn't get to stop for them, so why should it get to stop for you?"

"It doesn't stop," Avery laughed. "Prison didn't stop me, it made me careful. I assaulted plenty of others after my release, I just didn't get caught, again."

"Hutch knew you didn't stop, that you _weren't_ going to stop. So… he stopped you."

"You stopped me."

Starsky closed his eyes, suddenly overpowered by the dialogue awoken by Avery's matter-of-fact words.

 _"_ _Stay with me_ ," Hutch had pleaded. Kneeling before Starsky, he gripped his shoulders and peered earnestly up into his eyes.

Illuminated beneath the neon back alley entrance of the _Badlander_ , Starsky shook his head. The motion was numb but panicked, a certain sign that he was seconds away from mentally evacuating the moment. Sitting on the bottom step of the staircase, he balled his blood covered hands into fists on his lap; Matthew Avery's body was paces away, sitting lifeless amongst the potholed, mud-covered alleyway. The midnight sky had given way to rain; a chill climbed up Starsky's spine as his clothes quickly absorbed the frigid moisture, but it did nothing to clean the blood-spatter freckling his face and neck—it would take gallons of water to numb the memory of what he had just done.

 _"_ _Stay with me in this,"_ Hutch pleaded, his grip tightening around Starsky's neck.

Eyes locked on Avery's body, the only thing Starsky could hear was the sound of his own breath. He wanted to ask what they were going to do with Avery's body and why Fate had wanted it prepared the way it was—with his head beaten in but body mostly untouched, marked only with a linear scar on his cheek—but he couldn't seem to form words. That morning he had awoken an innocent man, and, that night, Hutch and the darkness had transformed him into a murderer.

"Why did you kill me?" Avery asked, dissolving the image of the memory but not the weight of the guilt over what had been done.

"Because Hutch asked me to," Starsky whispered.

"Just as you always do what he tells you to do," Avery stated, his tone sharp and determined, as though he had successfully won an argument Starsky hadn't agreed to engage in.

"No," Starsky contradicted. "I didn't do it because Hutch wanted me to. I did it because I had to. I always do what I have to do. That's who I am."

Avery looked displeased. "You said he asked you to kill me. How is accommodating his request any different than complying with his wishes? They are the same thing."

"No, it's different. I didn't kill you because he wanted me to. I mean, I did, but that wasn't made me do it. I did for myself. I did it because…" Starsky hesitated, overpowered by the memory of the first night outside of the _Bandlander_ , as Hutch's fierce words echoed in his ears.

 _"_ _I came back to you!"_ Hutch had growled. Hooking his fingers under Starsky's chin, he forced them to hold each other's gaze. Hutch's eyes were glistening with anger and a hint of fear. _"You needed me and I came back. Don't you disappear on me—don't you dare run away! Remember what you told me, you said that you could forgive me for just about anything, but you couldn't lose me. This is the cost of having me here. This is the price you have to be willing to pay because I came back to you."_

"I did it for me," Starsky finished, setting his eyes on Avery's broken form. He didn't want know the truth but his denial neither stopped him from recalling each heart wrenching detail nor did it prevent the words from spilling from his mouth. "I did it because everything worth having comes with a price. Hutch disappeared and then he came back and in exchange for being able to leave this property, for being able to walk freely, he had to give Fate whatever she wanted. Hutch came back because he knew I needed him and he…he needs me, too."

 _"_ _I need you in this, David!"_ Hutch had shouted, a hint a hysteria to his tone. His eyes tracked Starsky's numb gaze and shocked expression, seemingly looking for something—the slightest hint that what had just been done wouldn't change how he was perceived, that the violence they had just engaged in wouldn't transform the fierce love lingering between them into hate. _"I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry I had to ask you to do this. If it could have been any other way, I would have taken it. You have to know that. I wouldn't have asked you to do this if I would have had another choice."_

"He doesn't need you!" Avery chuckled. "He doesn't want you here; he told you that, himself."

Grinding his jaw, Starsky snorted humorlessly as he bent and retrieved the oil lamp sitting on the floor. "Yeah, well, that's the thing you have to know about Hutch," he whispered, a moment later, striding past Avery to finally enter the darkness sitting beyond the bedroom door. "He lies."

Xx

The long hallway was dark, the staircase leading to the main level of the home equally so. The oil lamp cast a dim hue on Starsky's surroundings; he could see that walls were damp. Thick lines of blood glistened, seeping down the walls, soaking into the worn hardwood flooring. The soles of his shoes slipped as he took one purposeful step after another, each threatening to send him tumbling to the floor. His body felt strange—numb and disjointed—and his mind was oddly calm, as though he was watching each inevitable step he took from across the room.

He wasn't afraid of the darkness anymore. He was no longer attached to the idea of survival, of saving Hutch or himself. One way or another, this would all be over soon, and he intended to say what he come to say, to do what he had entered the basement staircase to do. He needed to talk to Hutch one last time.

The house was quiet, but incessant whispers surrounded him. It was not the ceaseless, incomprehensible dialogue of unknown people or ghosts he had heard before, rather panicked statements he had buried deep in the depths of his memory, unnerving pleas Hutch had articulated time and time again. Things that, captive to confusion and anger, resentment and hate, he hadn't wanted to recall Hutch had ever said.

 _"_ _I need you in this, David. I need you to remember who I am because I'm not sure I know anymore!"_

Standing at the top of the staircase, Starsky stared fearlessly into the darkness. Despite the lamp in his hand, his path was obscured by blackness, but it did nothing to shake his determination. He had waiting for this—Fate had been waiting for him.

 _"_ _Don't you understand? There is a darkness inside of me—Fate is inside of my head and sometimes I can't... I can't tell the difference between her voice and my own."_

Footsteps echoing solidly, Starsky descended the stairs as Hutch's words reverberated relentlessly in his ears.

 _"_ _I need you to see me for who I really am; I need you love me, to look at me the way you once did. I need to see myself through your eyes because when I look in the mirror I don't recognize myself."_

Over and over, Starsky had been asked who belonged to and why Hutch was holding on to him, but he had been unable—unwilling—to answer either question. Though he had pretended otherwise, he had always known the answers; he hadn't wanted to admit them. As Hutch had said the truth was not fluid; it remained stagnate, unchanged by his inability to acknowledge or accept it. But in this moment, he knew the truth and he was closer to accepting it than he had ever been.

The truth was, he needed Hutch to take care of him, to help him negotiate the days of his life when his confusion was rampant, when he was not strong enough to contend with the static threatening to overwhelm his conscious decision making. And Hutch needed him, to keep him sane beneath Fate's tight grip, to remind him who he really was beneath all the darkness—who he had been before embracing Fate into his heart and soul.

The truth was: that despite their respective secrets, the lies they had told each other and themselves, Starsky and Hutch belonged to each other. They always had and always would.

Reaching the bottom of the staircase, Starsky hesitated. His arms hung limply at his sides as he considered the differing directions he could go. In front of him was the front door, to his left was a window lined wall, and to his right was a short hallway which would lead him to another room. The darkness had ebbed slightly, allowing the slightest sliver of moonlight to peak in from window, shining an inviting beam down the hallway; and the whispers had ceased only to be replaced by the faint crackling of a roaring fire. Tilting his head, he listened to the sound; it could have been comforting but it wasn't—nor were the orange shadows the distant flame was casting on the hallway meeting and engulfing moonbeams until they were erased.

Looking at the door, Starsky's legs shook beneath him; his nervous body struggled to prompt him to leave but his mind forced it to stay put. He could leave, but he wouldn't—not with what was waiting for him at home, not without doing what he had come here to do.

He moved down the hallway at a glacial pace.

The walls were bleeding, long thick lines of bubbling blood. They seeped to the floor slowly, miraculously negotiating themselves around the line of photographs mounted at eye level in a pristine line, leaving them aged but untouched. The photographs were familiar, each depicted a different man in a different time, standing in the middle of what Starsky recognized as the barren field behind the farmhouse—countless men he didn't recognize and two he did: Simon Marcus and Hutch.

Reaching the end of the passage, he was presented with a framed entry to a small living area. The spaced smelled of fresh pine and fireplace smoke and was decidedly different than the rest of the house. The left and right walls were lined with tall farmhouse windows and on the far wall, opposite the doorway, there was mammoth sized brick fireplace. The space housed no furniture; the flooring was unstained but littered with scattered empty beer cans and countless bottles of hard alcohol. There was no blood seeping from the walls only playful orange shadows of the fire burning obediently inside of the fireplace. Sitting cross-legged before it, Hutch stabbed the charred wood with an iron poker but did not look at the doorway.

"David," he said quietly, sipping a can of beer he held in a white knuckled grip. "I told you to stay where you were."

"I couldn't stay in there a second longer," Starsky countered quietly. "There were too many memories." His hand shook under the weight of the oil lamp or maybe it was shock of seeing Hutch this way. He looked sad, lonely and desolately resigned to some unspoken horrible thing, and Starsky had a fleeting feeling that he should have felt afraid—daring to come upon Hutch in this room—but the feeling vanished as quickly as it came. It was promptly silenced by the raw, palpable pain radiating off of his husband only to be contained in the tiny room.

"You should set that lamp down before you drop it and burn the place to the ground," Hutch said. "The wood hasn't been sealed yet, that thing tips over and the whole damn house will go up in flames."

"Would that be a bad thing?" Starsky asked as he complied with the suggestion. Setting the lamp near the doorway, he moved toward Hutch. "So this is why you don't drink on the porch anymore," he added, nodding at the scattered cans. "You've been doing all your drinking alone down here."

"I don't know why I bother," Hutch sighed. "Fate won't let me get drunk anymore. I can drink and drink but she won't let the alcohol numb me; she won't let it make me forget anything I know."

"That's probably a good thing, judging by the array of what you've been mixing and knocking back, you'd be in for some pretty horrific hangovers."

"I would _welcome_ a hangover," Hutch said, his voice low, throaty and pained, as he looked up and held Starsky's intense gaze.

Mouth falling open, Starsky hesitated in place, too overwhelmed by the agony shining in Hutch's eyes to take another step. It was unfamiliar—downright foreign since being absent for long—frightening and heart-wrenching all at the same time. It was as though he was being allowed to see every sliver of guilt, pain, and shame Hutch had ever experienced in his life.

"Oh, Hutch," Starsky breathed, devastated by the sight. Fate had changed Hutch, left him mostly callous and calm, unaffected and unburdened by everything he had endured in the past and what he would encounter in the future. But down here he was different—in this _room_ he was different.

"Do you have any idea what it's like to know everyone's secrets? And everyone has them, even the people you don't want to think have anything to hide. I don't want know everything about everybody. I come down here because it's easier that way. _That way_ I can keep away from all the noise attached to all things I shouldn't know."

Frowning wretchedly, Starsky forced himself to break eye contact in favor of the calmness of the bare flooring. He knew that what Hutch was saying was the truth but it wasn't the whole truth. After all, he knew Hutch better than anyone else in the world. He had been right about him; embracing Fate, Hutch had allowed an evil to settle deep inside of him, shifting his personality into shades of indifference and occasional malicious intent, transforming him into a monster. But someone else had been right about Hutch, too.

Lucas Huntley had said that Hutch was motivated by guilt and grief, that his current dissociative behavior had been motivated by the pain and responsibility he had felt over the things Starsky had suffered while being held captive by Simon Marcus and Fate, and the devastation he had felt after being dismissed from Bay City PD. And seeing the room—the one that was so decidedly different than the rest of the house—littered with countless empty beer cans and bottles of alcohol that had failed to numb Hutch's pain, Starsky knew that the small area had been specifically constructed for one intent.

"That's a lie," Starsky whispered. "You don't come down here to ignore anything. You come down here so that you can feel something. You come down here so that you can sit and wallow and _drown_ in the grief and guilt of all the thing you once wanted to hide and all the pain of the things we've done since Fate came into our lives."

Hutch scoffed and tipped back his beer, seemingly intent on ignoring the claim.

"You're different up there," Starsky said, absently nodded at the ceiling. "Sometimes you seem like you are who you were, but most of the time you're detached and mean—"

 _"_ _Up there_?" Hutch laughed into his beer can.

"What would you call it? I went into our basement and ended up on this land. I was up there and now I'm down here."

"This property is not located beneath our apartment."

"Then how are we here? How did you rebuild this house by carrying supplies into our basement?"

"Not everything has a reasonable explanation," Hutch said matter-of-factly. "Sometimes things just are. The laws of Physics don't apply to Fate. She has attached herself to me, but she remains forever rooted on this property, therefore, so am I."

"I don't understand, but you came _back_. You've been living in our apartment, sleeping next to me in our bed."

Hutch shook his head sadly. "When was the last time I made it through the night in that bed? And while we're on the topic, when was the last you did? We've spent more time separated than together since I returned. You're always so eager to run away from the truth and me. In fact, I'm surprised you're still here. Did you have a good conversation with Matthew Avery's ghost? Did he make you see _the light_ and accept the truth about how those men died? Did he leave you ready to hold me accountable for all my _transgressions_ , for the terrible things I made you do?"

"That's not why I came down here, Hutch. That's not why I stayed."

"Then why are you still here? You could have ran out the front door. You could have walked back to the city on your own, met up and Blaine and Dobey and taken responsibly for everything that went down—all those homicides that you and I are responsible for. That was your original plan, wasn't it? You were going to let them take you; if Fate wouldn't have showed up they'd be booking you right now." Face hardening, Hutch nodded at the doorway behind Starsky. " _Please_ , don't let seeing me like this make you hesitate; don't let it stop you from running away or doing what we both know you want to do."

"I thought you knew everything," Starsky snapped then clenched his hands into fists at his sides and forced a deep breath. Despite the apparent differences in Hutch, their conversation was rapidly dissolving into another stubborn battle of who was right or wrong, who had made worse decisions, ran and left the other standing alone, or who had hurt the other one more. They shouldn't argue about things that didn't matter anymore. There were here now, with no guarantee how long the moment would last. "I'm done running and I don't want to argue with you," he added, softening his tone. "I feel like that's all we've been doing since as long as I can remember. I don't want to leave, not yet. There's still plenty of time to tell the whole truth."

He grimaced, wondering if Blaine and Dobey had already arrived at Venice Place. Perhaps, they were there now, armed with warrants to search the apartment and apprehend him. Maybe Whitley was with them or maybe he had decided to keep his distance. Distance would be smarter; if anyone discovered that he warned Starsky of his impending arrest, Whitley would have a panel of people to answer to.

Grinding his feet on the floor, he forced himself to abandon his thought. He and Hutch were here now, momentarily safe from the devastation the future promised to bring—and whatever pain Fate was intent on unleashing on Starsky for ignoring her will—and he was determined not to waste it. Shoving his hands deep into his jeans pockets, he looked around his surroundings, somehow becoming keenly aware of them for the first time. While the rest of the house was a replica of what had burned down, this room was decidedly different.

If he was viewing it under different circumstances, if he hadn't been so intimidated by the events that had led Hutch to rebuild the house, he may been impressed. The craftsmanship was impeccable; perfectly placed shiplap lined the walls, the bottoms of which were flawlessly framed, offsetting the beautifully laid hardwood floors. With all the hours Hutch had spent down here, with all money he had spent at Home Depot buying supplies that had scratched and tarnished the bed of his black pickup truck, Starsky had no idea Hutch was capable of building something that looked like this.

"What do you call this place, Hutch?"

"Simon Marcus called it home." Hutch shrugged. Finishing his beer, he crumpled the can, tossing it haphazardly on the floor before breaking another from the plastic rings binding it to the six pack sitting in front of him. "I guess, now I do, too."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Hutch snorted bitterly. "It's stupid; it's a useless emotion. Sorrow is a foolish man's game and you're not foolish, David. You are very, very smart."

"You said I was foolish yesterday."

"That was yesterday. Today you've proven that statement wrong. That's what you do, what you have always done and always will do: you prove people _wrong_."

"Did I prove you wrong?"

"Me?"

"Yeah. Was there ever a time when you thought something about me but I proved you wrong?" Starsky knew the question was leading but he asked it anyway. There was so little time left, he wanted to know—he _needed_ to ask—how Hutch had really felt about his buried secrets: his mother's illness and indecent relationship with John Blaine.

"Don't pick at your scars," Hutch said, quietly repeating Emily Hutchinson's tired words. "You won't like what you see."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Hutch snorted, wordlessly, shaking his head as he gazed into the fire.

"I mean, I know what it _means_ ," Starsky said lamely. "But I don't understand how some shitty line your mom used to say to you when you were a kid has anything to do with us, right here, right now."

Inhaling a taxed breath, Hutch held it until Starsky was sure his husband's lungs would explode. It was odd watching him like this, being privy to Hutch's pain, frustration, and palpable hesitation after being protected from it for so long. And for a second, he felt like a stranger—an unwelcome voyeur who was trespassing and witnessing emotions he never should have seen. Hutch didn't want him in here—he didn't even want him to leave the bedroom— why should he be forced to make him feel better about secrets that never should have been kept?

"I'm sorry." Starsky winced and shook his head. "I shouldn't have asked that. I didn't come in here intent on making you alleviate my guilt. I came to tell you something—"

"You shouldn't feel guilty about your mother or Blaine," Hutch said, his gaze locked on the fire, his words nearly inaudible. "We all make mistakes; we all lie. You're not any different than anyone else."

"But I should have been. I should have been different to _you_."

The words came out more bitter and judgmental than Starsky intend and they had the opposite effect than he wanted them to have. The pair settled into an awkward silence as several minutes passed. Starsky wanted to scream; he wanted to grab fistfuls of Hutch's flannel shirt, hoist him off the ground and demand that he understand how he had meant to say the words that had left them both speechless. He hadn't intended to shift all the blame to Hutch, rather to admit his own. He should have been better to Hutch when he had the chance—he should have _known_ better than to have fallen in love with Hutch knowing he couldn't bring himself to stop seeing Blaine.

"It's okay," Hutch whispered knowingly, his gaze not wandering from the fire's tall flames. "Really, it is. I said it didn't care and I meant it. None of that matters anymore. When we first got together, you needed Blaine and I needed you. You have the memory of him and I have the memory of you and that's the end of it. It doesn't matter how it happened or why; we are all pieces in this. We have our parts to play, and Blaine has his. He is vital to your future. He loves you; he will do anything to protect you."

Words failing him, Starsky stood unmoving in the middle of the room as Hutch finished his beer, then crushed the can, tossed on the floor and stood. Rubbing his hands over his eyes, he groaned softly, a haggard sound that was quickly canceled out the cracking fire.

"We're out of time," he moaned regretfully, dropping his hands to hang limply at his sides. "You stayed here for reason. You came in here to say something to me, if you're still intent on doing that then you better do it while we're still alone."

"I don't want to," Starsky whispered hesitantly, his voice shaking with dread. There was something finite about this moment; he didn't want it to end. There was something haunting about the way Hutch was looking at him. His eyes were shinning, not with evil or malicious intent, but regret and heart-wrenching love. They were verbally dancing around something, some unspoken detail they were both well aware of.

Fate didn't want Starsky in the basement—she didn't want him to see Hutch like this— but she hadn't led him down here, or prompted him to leave the upstairs bedroom by telling him to stay where he was.

But Hutch had.

Hutch knew everything—every deep-seeded secret, every lie. He had known Starsky would never stay put; he had _known_ that the only way to get him to finally move closer was to push him away—to corner him. Hutch had sent the text messages to Whitley, he had ensured the Blaine would suspect Starsky of their brutal crimes. But why would he do that? Protected by Fate, why would Hutch go through the trouble of unraveling their lives now?

"Why am I here, Hutch? Why did you bring me to this place?" Starsky asked, sudden panic clenching his throat. Fidgeting nervously, he grasped his wedding ring, turning it absently between his index finger and thumb of his opposite hand. The moment only served to prompt more uncertainty. " _Christ_ , why did you marry me, if you were going to let them tear us apart?"

"I wanted to make sure you were always taken care of," Hutch said gently. "You heard voices and I made them go away, but that won't last forever. You're sick, David. Your mother's illness is hereditary; there was always a chance that you could develop it, that certain stresses could awaken what hiding inside of you. Simon Marcus didn't help that situation, and Fate exploited your deepest fear. You were terrified of being like your mother and now you are—Fate made sure of it. Once the voices return, and they will return, your career will be over—"

"It's already over," Starsky snorted. "I'm a murderer, remember? And even if I wasn't, even if I had nothing to with those homicides, Fate left me with no way out. She _incriminated_ me in everyone's mind."

"I needed to ensure you were taken care of, no matter what. I married you because I wanted to make sure that you were legally entitled to anything I had. The apartment, the money my father left, I needed to make sure that would all be yours."

" _Why_? What the hell is our apartment or your dead father's money going to do for me if I'm _institutionalized_ for _murder_?"

"It isn't going to go down that way. You're not going to be convicted of those murders, and you certainly aren't going to be institutionalized." Coming to stop in front of Starsky, Hutch tilted his head and ran his fingertips over his husband's forearms. It was the slightest of touches, brief and longing but fearful— as though he was afraid grasping and holding Starsky would dissolve the moment completely. "You stayed for reason, David. You are here right now because you knew what needed to happen."

"I don't understand."

"No." Hutch shook his head. "Don't tell me that. You understand. You knew that Dobey and Blaine were coming for you and you made the decision to prolong your arrest. You entered the basement for a _reason_ ; you left the upstairs bedroom even when I told you to stay put. Everyone has a role in this and you have yours."

"I just needed to see you before everything fell apart."

"That's not all. You knew something. If your conversation with Fate didn't leave you certain of what needed to be done, then your revelations upstairs did. You know why you're here; you _know_ why you couldn't let them arrest you; you know why you couldn't leave me here."

Starsky's skin tingled with an odd sensation, a horrible combination of dread and anguish as Hutch's face set in an emotion he didn't recognize—anger, terror, grief, and resignation all rolled into one horrible look. It was a devastating expression, one that Starsky struggled to name or understand. This was all wrong—something had gone incredibly awry—Hutch was monster and Starsky had the blood of seven people on his hands. It was too late to expect anyone to understand why things had unfolded the way they had, and much too late to be optimistic regarding the retribution the future held.

"From the moment Simon Marcus saw me he knew that I destined to end his life," Hutch continued. "He knew Fate wanted me and he embraced her wishes—he embraced me—because he saw his way out—"

"That doesn't have anything to do with us, right here, right now. It's different."

"It's the same. Do you have any idea what's like to have to carry Fate? What it's like to have her crawling around in your head, picking at your heart, and embedding herself into your soul? Simon Marcus did and that's why he embraced death. He welcomed his only way out."

"Why did you bring me here?" Starsky demanded breathlessly, his heart plummeting to the depths of his chest. "Why did you tell me not to leave the room knowing that would?" Though he asked the questions, he dreaded Hutch's answer—the certain truth he knew so fervently in his heart.

As a child, Hutch had needed someone to rescue him from the darkness just as he needed someone to rescue him from Fate now. Years ago, on this very land, Simon Marcus had been killed. Hutch had abruptly ended his tenuous connection to Fate and standing before Starsky, his eyes shining, Hutch was silently pleading for Starsky to do the same.

"Fate and I, we are tethered," Hutch said, a hint of desperation in his insistent tone. "There's no going back, David. I can't undo what I've done; I can't break what binds her and me together. I can't go back and I can no longer go forward not with her—or you. I thought I was right, but I was wrong."

"Is that what you expect me to do? Is that why you brought me down here because you know that I'll do what needs to be done no matter how hard it is? You want me to _murder_ you, too?"

"Simon Marcus was a smarter man than I am. He knew Fate couldn't be controlled, that's why he stayed on this property; he left behind whatever life he had before Fate came into his life and he made this place his home. If he couldn't control her then he could at least keep her contained. I made a mistake. I shouldn't have dared to leave this place once she attached herself to me. Fate doesn't belong in the world and if she can't be a part of it then neither can I."

"I won't do it."

"Don't you understand? Fate killed Jack, for no other reason than she could. He went into the basement but he didn't do anything to deserve death; he didn't see this property. He didn't make it past the bottom step. Fate is strong and dauntless. I thought I could contain her wishes. I thought that I could target those felons and that'd be it. But it's not enough; it'll _never_ be enough. Fate wants innocent people. Jack was the first. _Jesus_ , Callie Baker has to be the last. Don't you see, what we have now isn't a life, not for you or me. I can't protect you from her anymore, and I've already required you to pay a price that was much too high."

"I _can't_ do it!"

"You don't understand why this has to be this way now—I know that—but you will. Someday, you will looked back on this moment and you will understand that it's not me I'm thinking of. I see you, David. I may not be the same up in the world as I am down here, but I feel your pain; I'm privy to your regrets and your shame. I know how hard life has been for you since I came back. I know the weight you carry because of the things made you do, but Fate's not going to stop. Vile felons who couldn't keep their hands to themselves were one thing, but innocent people are something else, entirely. I refuse to allow you to dirty your hands with the blood of people who should be spared."

"But I can't live without you," Starsky whispered, his voice cracking with strain as tears welled in his eyes. "And I can't save you from Fate."

Grasping his shoulders, Hutch pulled Starsky into a tight embrace, and clinging to him, Starsky closed his eyes, fearing that keeping them open would allow him to slip through his fingertips. Time was moving too fast—soon this moment would be gone and what it would take with it was too devastating to think about. He held on to Hutch tightly, savoring the comforting security of his arms. His grounding presence had soothed Starsky's doubt and fear time and time again but now left his heart aching.

"I can't save you from anything," Starsky whispered. He didn't want to let go of Hutch; he didn't want to accept the truth; and he didn't want to think about the pain and complications the future promised. He wanted to hold on to Hutch forever, to freeze and seek eternal respite in a moment that was destined to end much too soon.

"You are saving me," Hutch soothed. "Right here, right now. I told you to stay but you summoned the courage to come; you were finally brave enough to take the first step."

"There has to be another way. We can fix this—I-I know we can. We have to," Starsky begged helplessly, clenching at the back of Hutch's shirt in desperation. " _Please_ , I'll do whatever Fate needs me to do, just don't ask me to hurt you; and don't you dare ask me to kill you. I won't do it, not now. Not _ever_."

"I'm not asking you to kill me."

"Then what are you asking me to do?"

"Oh, sweetheart," Hutch sighed. Breaking their physical contact, he took step back and forced a sad smile.

Heart pounding, Starsky's stomach churned with sickening dread. There was something wrong about this—something terrifying by the agony sparkling in Hutch's pale blue eyes. Somewhere in the back of his consciousness, Starsky registered a distant sound, the crash of someone—something—bursting through the farmhouse's front door.

"What are you asking me to do?" he asked, the question escaping in a dreadful gasp.

They were out of time. Something had come—someone had arrived. Their abrasive footsteps echoed through the hallway as Hutch grasped Starsky's forearms, roughly demanding his attention remain on their impassioned exchange.

"I'm not asking you to kill me," Hutch repeated, his voice gentle and gravely. "I'm asking you _forgive_ me."

" _What_?"

"David?" someone suddenly asked. The voice was familiar but its presence here was an unnerving as it was out of place.

Face snapping to the doorway, Starsky looked at John Blaine wide eyed. Standing behind them, Blaine's body was rigid as he clenched his aimed gun tightly in his hands.

"John?" Starsky gasped. "What are you—?"

Grasping his chin harshly, Hutch forced Starsky to look at him in the eye. "I love you," he whispered gruffly, his free hand pulling an item that was hidden away behind him, tucked safely beneath the waist of his jeans. "I'm sorry. Never forget you were the best thing about me."

Eyes frozen on Hutch's haunted gaze, Starsky didn't see the sheen of the knife until it was too late.

"Drop it!" Blaine shouted.

"NO!" Starsky screamed in unison as he felt the tip of knife break through his cheek.

Fiery pain shot through his body; a stinging pressure which seemed to travel through every nerve ending as the blade was pushed impossibly deep. Blood filled his mouth; oozing from the wound it slid rapidly down his throat, threatening to choke him as he coughed and reached for the hilt of the knife implanted in his cheek and he felt himself fall as Hutch shoved him back first on the ground. He landed with a thud, his body shaking as it struggled to absorb and reconcile the abrasive impact with the burning pain radiating off of his cheek. Gun shots reverberated through the air and Hutch lurched, his chest smoking from the heat of the bullets embedded into his body, as he fell lifelessly on the floor.

For one terrible moment, no one moved. Blood and tears seeping down his cheeks, Starsky focused on the stillness on the Hutch's body as he felt what was left of the life he had once known unravel.

TBC


	57. Chapter Fifty-Seven

The hospital waiting room was small, gray, empty, and quiet.

Images flashed on the TV set mounted on the wall; backdated magazines and newspapers lay abandoned on vacant tables and chairs, haphazardly forgotten by anxious readers as their attention was promptly stolen by good news or bad, updates on conditions of family members or friends that would leave them grateful and joyous, or devastated and anguished.

Sitting in the farthest corner of the room, his eyes set on the empty corridor leading to long white endless hallways, Starsky wasn't sure if he felt any of those things. He was shocked and shattered, broken and overwhelmed, overcome by countless other emotions he couldn't quite seem to name and one he could: Numbness.

Most of all he felt numb.

He wasn't certain if he was unconsciously employing his favored coping mechanism or if the shocking events of the day had left him desensitized to whatever else the future could bring.

Inhaling a shaky breath, he looked at his hands. His clothes were bloody—stained and defaced by copious amounts of Hutch's blood—but his hands were clean. Finally immaculate despite the dried stains that had haunted his vision for days—and they should be. They had been carefully washed countless times since he had arrived at the hospital. The first wash had been done by his attending team, the others he had completed on his own—secret and frantic actions born from his need to excavate the telltale bloodstains he had once seen.

Panic stricken, he was certain that if he just scrubbed _hard_ enough, if he just used the right amount of soap, then maybe, just _maybe_ , the bloodstains would reemerge and Hutch would whole again, unaffected and undamaged by the bullets the chamber of John Blaine's gun had inserted into his chest.

But it wasn't to be.

Starsky could have washed his hands a million times and it wouldn't have changed anything. He realized that, eventually, once his hands became red and raw, stinging under the water that threated to burn his skin. He couldn't change anything.

And maybe there was no fighting what was destined to be, he had begun to absently think—sometime between being pulled away from Hutch's motionless body at the farmhouse on the Marcus Compound and having to sit unmoving in a small curtained triage while an ER doctor stitched up the wound on his face.

 _No, not stitched_ —he reminded himself— _adhered._ That was what the doctor had said, his aged face breaking into a satisfied smile.

" _Liquid stitches are terrific, they lessen the chance of scarring,"_ he had added, his tone slightly expectant, as though he was waiting for Starsky to jump with joy or profusely thank him for something that suddenly seemed so absurd.

Starsky said nothing in reply, but he flinched when the doctor gently grasped his face in preparation to seal the wound.

 _"_ _There's nothing to worry about,"_ The Doctor said, mistaking his silence for concern, his desolated expression for physical pain. _"You bled a lot but this wound isn't as deep as it appears. In time, you'll heal, and, hopefully, it won't scar."_

The doctor was kind but wrong. Starsky had catalogue of things worry about, including whether or not Hutch would live? What would happen if he did? And whether he, himself, would be arrested and indicted for the seven homicides he knew now that he was responsible for.

With concerns like that, he didn't have the time or energy to fear whether or not his cheek would one day conceal the proof of what Hutch had done—it just didn't seem important anymore. After all, he had already lived with a scar and living with something he had become accustomed to wasn't nearly as terrifying as the notion of having to live without it.

They sealed his wound and covered it with a white bandage, discharged and led him to the secluded waiting room. He didn't know how long he sat there, his eyes not seeing, his ears not registering sound, before he realized he wasn't alone. Side-by-side, Blaine and Dobey were standing in the doorway, watching him carefully. He wanted to ignore them but nodded, instead, and interpreting the action as an invitation Dobey entered the room.

Blaine hung back, shifting his weight awkwardly from the tips of his toes to the balls of his feet, trying to look as though he wasn't carefully observing Starsky's every move. He hadn't allowed Starsky out of his sight since finding him the farmhouse. He had lingered, first in the background of the triage as Starsky's wound was tended to, then just outside the entrance of every other room the younger man entered. They didn't say anything to each other; they didn't have to, their years together had left them both acutely aware of each other, able to silently determine one another's feelings effortlessly.

"How's Hutch?" Dobey asked, though judging by his guarded expression, Starsky was certain he didn't really want to know.

Then again, neither did Starsky.

 _"_ _How is he?"_ Starsky had demanded as the ER doctor tended to the wound on his cheek. _"Kenneth Hutchinson, the man I was brought in with?"_

 _"_ _I'm not supposed to tell you anything about that."_

 _"_ _Why not? He's my husband. I have right to know where he is, what you're doing to him, or even if…"_ Starsky hesitated, his heart clenching in chest. _"…Even if, he's alive."_

Closing his eyes against the vivid memory, Starsky stifled a groan as he failed to suppress the guilt settling in his chest or the haunting memory of Hutch's fragmented words as they echoed in his head: _Sometimes some must die so that others may live. Fate doesn't belong in the world and if she can't be a part of it then neither can I._

"He died," Starsky whispered, the words sounding foreign on his lips as Dobey's eyes widened and his face paled. "Twice. Once on the floor of that fucking house and then again just after they brought us in. I resuscitated him the first time, EMT were able to bring him back the second. They're still working on him and won't tell me a damn thing."

"Starsky," Dobey said. "Hutch will be alright." But the words were forced, his certainty feigned, and staring at the wall, Starsky couldn't bring himself to believe the statement.

"Yeah."

The pair sat in silence, both absently watching Blaine pace the room, as the passing of time seemed to downshift, freezing them in agonizing slow-motion as Starsky awaited for whatever terrible event was destined to happen next. He kept waiting them to bring up the traumatic events that had just unfolded—for either of them to demand an explanation of why Hutch would stab him, or how he or Blaine had been able to transport themselves from Venice Place to the Marcus Compound just by descending the basement stairs—or cuff and read him his Miranda Rights, but they did neither.

"What's going to happen now?" Starsky asked finally, unnerved by the unsettling silence. "Are you ever going to do what you came to my apartment to do? Are you going to arrest me for those homicides?"

Dobey looked conflicted. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees and rubbed his face with his large hands. "No," he said, his soft words no more than a taxed sigh. "I'm not going to arrest you."

"Why not?" Starsky snorted. "I killed those people. We all know I did. That's why you came to my house, that's why we're all here now—"

"Shhh," Dobey instructed gently, his dark eyes holding Blaine's knowing gaze. "Don't say things like that. It is in your best interest to keep your mouth quiet."

"What?" Starsky asked, dumbfounded by the absurdity of the words and the moment. Dobey shouldn't be here; they hadn't seen each other, they hadn't spoken, in the longest time. Starsky was no longer his officer, Dobey no longer his superior. The elder man's presence at his side was merely symptomatic of the truth they all knew.

"We don't know what happened to those felons, or Callie Baker for that matter. We had our suspicions but, given how Blaine found you and Hutch, those have since changed."

"I haven't seen in you in two years!" Starsky shouted, his stomach churning with anger and abrupt grief, as he pointed an accusing index finger at his former superior. "You wouldn't even be here right now if it wasn't for what I did, and Hutch wouldn't be…" he hesitated, snapping his mouth shut, unable—unwilling—to give his greatest fear a voice.

He wouldn't live without Hutch. He couldn't tolerate the thought. Someone needed to take responsibility for what had happened—somehow he had to make things right. If Hutch was destined to die then someone needed to be held accountable for what had led to his death. He needed to take responsibly for what he had done—what his love for Hutch influenced him to do—he couldn't bear the alternative. What was he supposed to do? Return to their home shower and sleep, carry on with his life pretending as though the last two years of their lives hadn't been something out of a nightmare?

"But I did it," he whispered. "I killed those people, you know I did. You have proof, don't you?"

Dobey ignored the question. "I have to leave," he whispered regretfully. "Can I call someone to wait with you? Your Aunt or Uncle, or Huggy?"

"No."

"You shouldn't be alone. What if something happens—?"

"I'm not going to be alone," Starsky snorted, his eyes catching and holding Blaine's wandering gaze. "I haven't been alone in years."

"We'll talk soon." Squeezing Starsky's knee in a comforting manner, Dobey stood. "I'll be in touch," he added, nodding conspiratorially at Blaine before striding to the door.

Exhaling heartily, Blaine stood in place, shoving his hands deep into his the pockets of his wrinkled slacks and looked at Starsky out of the corner of his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, seemingly thought better, then closed it again. Starsky knew what he was thinking—he understood the guilt he was feeling—but there wasn't enough words to make what had happened right again.

There wouldn't be enough time to heal what Blaine had done to Hutch—years ago, or today—nothing would change or rectify the pain of what had been done.

"I'm sorry it had to be this way," Blaine whispered, his eyes locked on the floor. "I know you think I'm not but I am. You gotta believe me, David, if had I thought I had another choice I would have taken it."

"I don't care."

"He stabbed you, buddy. I'm sorry, but I did what I had to do, you of all people should be able to understand that."

"Don't be sorry," Starsky huffed, unconsciously repeating Hutch's earlier words. "It's stupid. It's a foolish man's game."

"That's awfully cynical."

"At least it's not stupid." Starsky tilted his head, his brows furrowing with distain. "Why are you still here?"

Although he asked the question, he already knew the truth. His last conversation with Hutch had provided him with the answer—the only one that could ever explain John Blaine's persistent presence in his life. _He loves you_ , Hutch had said simply. _He will do anything to protect you._

And entering the farmhouse, interrupting their interaction at an auspicious time, Blaine had done just that. Hutch had stabbed Starsky so Blaine had shot Hutch. Just as Fate—or at least Hutch—had planned. Everything was just as it was always meant to be.

"Why don't you leave?" Starsky asked. "I don't want you here."

"Well, I don't want you to be alone," Blaine countered, his tone soft but authoritative. Lifting his hand in the air, he dropped it helplessly at his side. "You shouldn't be alone," he added his voice too soft, too gentle, as though he was negotiating with small child on the verge of a tearful meltdown. "Not with this, not ever."

But Starsky was neither a child nor on the verge of melting down. He knew what Blaine was thinking—the unabating feelings which had always necessitated his persistent presence.

"You know," Blaine added quietly. "I keep thinking about that time, after Hutch was dismissed. When he left you alone and scared. You could have called anyone but you called me."

"I was confused."

"You weren't," Blaine contradicted. "Despite everything, you knew what you were doing. You asked me to take you away, you asked me to take _care_ of you, and I did. You knew what that meant to me and I knew what it meant to you. Davy, that door had been closed for a long time but that night you reopened it."

Stomach churning with regret, Starsky was assaulted with another repetitive adage he longed to forget: _Everything worth having always came with price._

His ceremonious return to Blaine's team was no different. He had known the first morning he had returned to work—when Hutch had been required to fasten the buttons of his uniform and soothe the worry that threated to cripple and prevent him from leaving their apartment—that Blaine's offer was conditional, sooner or later his superior was bound to request—or demand—Starsky comply with his expectations.

Watching Blaine expressionlessly as the older man strode to stand in front of him and sunk to his knees, Starsky wanted to be surprised. He wanted to be shocked and disgusted when his superior clenched his kneecaps and stared earnestly at him, his eyes sparkling with determination and hint of apprehension, but he wasn't. After all Hutch had warned him—in his own way—to be careful with Blaine, the secrets they shared, and the price that would be required to ensure they were kept.

"Are you the reason Dobey didn't arrest me?" Starsky asked, shifting uncomfortably under Blaine's tightening grip. "Did you lie to him or—?"

"No." Blaine shook his head. "His change of heart has less to do with your alleged guilt regarding those homicides and more to do with how we found you and Hutch. _Jesus_ , we went into your _basement_ and ended up on land miles outside the city. No matter how you look at that, it just doesn't make sense; there is something else going on here, something inexplicable and strange." Taking both of Starsky's hands, Blaine entwined their fingers tightly. "Baby, you're not a murder, not deep down, I know that and Dobey knows it, too."

"I'm not your baby, either," Starsky hissed. Stomach churning, he pulled his hands out of Blaine's fierce grasp. " _Jesus_ , John, are you listening to yourself? You just shot my husband and now you're asking to take his place."

 _"_ _My place_. I loved you—we loved each other— _first_ , long before Hutch ever came along. You were mine and I was yours before he weaseled in. Don't you remember how beautiful that was?" Blaine reached for Starsky's hands once more, but Starsky pulled them away, holding them up and suspending them in high. "David," he hissed, his tone sharp, his eyes flashing with momentary fury. "I advocated for you today, just like I did months ago. Do you remember months ago? What you felt like when you were finally cleared to return to work and those assholes passed your reinstatement request around like you were damaged goods? Nobody wanted to touch you; nobody wanted you to return to PD, not Chief Ryan or Dobey, _nobody_. But I gave you a chance, don't tell me now that you don't know why."

"You're married."

"I've always been married, that never mattered before."

"Well, I'm married _now_ ," Starsky said, his voice firm despite the uncertainty of the moment. "You should leave, John. This can't be like before; I don't want it to be. I don't need you like I did then. I don't want to, and I never will—"

"It won't be like before. It's different. Before Hutch was just… _gone_. And now he's… well, I guess he's gone, again, but it isn't the same. Baby, he hurt you. He shoved a _fucking_ knife through you face. Even if he lives, how are the two of you ever going to get over that? Now, me? I would never hurt you." Obstinately grasping Starsky's kneecaps, Blaine's face softened. "I have _never_ hurt you," he added as though the repetition would suddenly implore Starsky to change his mind.

Mouth slightly agape, Starsky was too unsettled to reply. Not by words, of course—if he was honest a part of him had been waiting for Blaine to say what he had—but by Blaine's tone and inflection, his insistent body language, the sharpness his fingernails as they gripped his knees too-tight, promising to leave telltale bruising behind, and the off-putting gleam in his eyes. It was familiar, dominating, and predatory, and Starsky wasn't sure what to say—or do.

The allure of what had taken place between them, years ago, had never faded—for either of them. The memories of the love they shared were perfect, idyllic, and impenetrable, but they were a farce. His time with Blaine was far from flawless and it had come at too high of a cost. Life consisted of choices—that was Hutch had said—every decision came with a price. Starsky was finished making the wrong choices and living his live indebted to mistakes. He knew what Blaine wanted—what he had always wanted—and he knew he wouldn't give in. He couldn't, not now, not ever again.

"He asked you to leave, John," a firm voice said, trickling in from the entrance of the waiting room.

Gaze locking on the corridor, Starsky's eyes widened and his heart skipped a beat. He was scandalized that such an intimate conversation had been overheard by such an important party.

Standing tall, Uncle Al looked far from amused. Hands planted on his hips, his forehead wrinkled with distain as he stare disgustedly at Blaine. "I think you better go," he finished fiercely.

If the moment wasn't so tense—if the day hadn't been so tragic—Starsky might have summoned the energy to laugh at his uncle's threat, or the way the foreign, protective tone emerging from the depths of older man's chest. The idea that Al could—or would need to—protect him from Blaine was ludicrous. But the moment was tense and day endlessly tragic. Though Starsky found no humor in their current predicament, looking at his uncle he felt overcome by relief.

He wasn't alone; he never really had been alone.

Xx

Hours passed before Starsky was finally allowed to see Hutch.

Gathered by a scrub-clad young woman, he and Al were led down a series of long corridors and inside a small room. Tears filling his eyes, Starsky hesitated, frozen by place by the gut-wrenching scene before him.

The room was dimly lit, eerie and quiet, save for the incessant, steady beeping of intimidating medical machinery. Hutch's skin was horribly pale, offset by the clean white bandages wrapped around his chest; his face was slightly distorted by endotracheal tube placed in his throat and secured around his mouth. He didn't look anything like he once had; he was frail and small, weak and defenseless—despite his physical size.

Struggling to comprehend the devastation he was seeing, Starsky's instinctive reaction was to turn, leave the room and run as far away as he could from the truth. He stood there for what felt like days, struggling to summon the courage to take a step forward or backwards before he felt Al grasp his hand and squeeze. It was small comfort but it was enough to propel Starsky forward, and following his uncle's lead, he took one step after another, moving closer to Hutch and further away from the door.

The doctor came and went.

Updating Starsky on Hutch's condition she used what felt like a thousand medical terms he struggled to understand or give meaning to before finally uttering one he did: critical. Lying motionless, attached to various tubes and cords, Hutch's prognosis wasn't good. The bullets from Blaine's gun were still embedded in his chest; he wasn't yet stable enough to survive surgery to have them removed.

When prompted to notify Hutch's family, Starsky called Lucas Huntley and no one else. The older man came, of course, but his fierce refusal to leave was a welcome surprise.

 _"_ _I'm not leaving,"_ Huntley huffed, time and time again, when hospital staff advised him of the conclusion of visiting hours. _"I don't give a shit about your rules and regulations, that kid may as well be my son. There's nothing you can do that's going make me to leave him now."_

Days started and ended, bringing countless visitors as they sat vigil at Hutch's side. Uncle Al and Aunt Rosie spent as much time with them as they could as did Huggy. They brought clean clothes Starsky hesitated to change into, food he refused to eat, and refills of his medications that he didn't dare skip now. In the time between watching Blaine shoot his husband and having sit in the uncertain stillness of a dim hospital room, Starsky had become haunted by voices—just as Hutch had warned he would. Though if their internal dialogue was merely the haunting aftermath of recent trauma or the reassertion of an illness he had tried to pretend he didn't have, he remained unsure. But the medication helped and being close to Hutch _helped_ —as it always had. Though unconscious, Hutch was different—Starsky could feel it. The invisible force that seemed to surrounded him, cloaking him in malevolence, threatening unspeakable things, had vanished, disappearing sometime between when he had died and then abruptly shocked back into his broken body.

Time seemed to pass too slowly and too quickly at the same time. There were moments Starsky was convinced would never end and others he longed would last forever as Hutch's condition seemed to both stabilize and remain painfully uncertain. Though he survived his first surgery and his second, Hutch remained unresponsive, captive to a coma he seemed destined to never wake from.

 _Maybe he doesn't want to_ , Starsky thought one afternoon, his mind burdened—stuck—on a repetitive loop of Hutch's request for forgiveness for what had been done.

Hutch had made it clear that he had wanted to die—that he _needed_ to die to break his link to Fate. He had softened his wishes by saying that someday Starsky would understand, that he would eventually look back on their last moments and know why it all had to be the way that it was. But gazing mournfully upon Hutch's painfully still form, Starsky was certain he already knew why everything had unfolded the way that it had.

It was exactly as Hutch—not Fate—had planned.

Hutch had given him the dreams of the charred man; he had led Starsky from the apartment above The Pits back to scene of their second crime, awakening Starsky's convoluted memories of Blaine, haunting him with the pain and shame of the past to create his unstable behavior and propel him into the future. It was Hutch who had sent the damning text message to Whitley and making himself scarce, Hutch had all-but-abandoned Starsky with the fallout such information promised to bring.

It was Hutch who had incriminated Starsky. It was Hutch who had left him with no other choice but to descend the basement stairs.

Hutch had known Starsky would never hurt him— he knew, that even after everything, Starsky wouldn't even entertain the thought—and he also knew about John Blaine. They were all pieces in this; they all had their role to play. Blaine was vital to Starsky's future. He loved him and would do anything to protect him, and following him into the basement, that is exactly what he did.

Hutch had known things about people; he had planned it all.

Sitting next to Hutch's hospital bed, Starsky wondered what Hutch was feeling, what he was dreaming, if anything at all. He considered the moments that had led them both here, he agonized over the things they could have talked about when they had a chance and all the different choices they could have made.

Momentarily, he willed Hutch to wake up, then felt a surge of guilt and grief as he immediately hoped he wouldn't. Maybe it was better this way—maybe it was best to allow him to fulfill the last choice he seemed destined to make. He was dying—despite the machines intent on keeping him alive—Starsky was sure of it. With each passing moment he was giving up, letting go of life a little at a time. After all, living was never a part of Hutch's plan.

"I have so many things I want to say to you," Starsky whispered when he and Hutch were alone. "Just so you know, you're an asshole for stabbing me like that. Just because you took the old scar away it doesn't give you the right to give me a new one. I understand why you did it, though. I get it, all of it. You didn't care about Blaine because I needed you and you needed him to do what you knew I never would."

Trailing the index finger of one hand over Hutch's forearm, he absently picked at the bandage covering his cheek with the other. Both actions were unconscious, each absently executed in an effort to soothe the apprehension attached to the uncertainty of the future.

"And I know why you're not opening your eyes; why you're not fighting to live right now. It's easier to remain unconscious than it is to wake up and deal with everything that's happened. It's easier to die than it is to live carrying the weight of all your mistakes."

He inhaled heartily, holding the deep breath in the bottom of his chest. Though Hutch's skin was warm beneath his fingertips, he remained unresponsive. Today he was alive but what would happen tomorrow or the day after that?

"How long have we known each other, huh?" he asked, his throat thick, his voice quaking. "And in all those years and neither one of us had the courage to tell the truth or change or trust each other with the things that hurt us the most. We're more alike than we are different; you carefully guarded secrets from your childhood and was doing the same. We hid in different ways, though. You were always so protective of the things you never wanted me to know and I was always too busying dismissing my own dishonesties to give yours any thought. What your uncle did to you was horrible but what your parents did to you was almost worse. They weren't able to deal with it; they weren't able to love you after everything that was done. That shaped you more than anything, I think. It left you eager for acceptance, afraid to tell the truth, and desperate to be loved. That's what this was all about, wasn't it? After Marcus I was hurt and furious. I was the one person who was supposed to stand by you no matter what and I pushed you away."

He paused, his lower lip trembling and vison blurring with tears. He didn't want to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to yank the tubes out of Hutch's stagnant body and violently shake him into consciousness. He wanted everything to be so much different than it was.

"I needed you but hated you, wouldn't even let you sleep in the same God-damn bedroom. And then Ryan fired you and that was the end of everything. You ran to Fate because everything was so fucked up between us that you couldn't summon the courage to tell me the truth. It was one of those moments where you just give up because you don't know what else to do, and all you can think is: I can never overcome this; I can never make this right. And that's what you're thinking right now. You probably think that I won't love you if you decide to wake up. You probably think that I won't forgive you for all the shit you invited into our lives."

Gripping Hutch's hand, Starsky held tight.

"But you're wrong. You're wrong about all of it. It's not going to go down that way. I will _always_ love you, and there is _nothing_ , no mistake you could ever make or thing you could ever do, that I wouldn't be able to forgive you for." He smiled, tears streaming down his cheeks. "I keep thinking about you and me and the way were once were before your dad died and the Simon Marcus case. Do you remember all the crazy fights we used to have, the way we used argue over nothing and everything at the same time? I was always so eager to leave the room or the house, to get some space between us so that I could calm down enough to see the situation clearly, but you always stayed. You never the left. Well, Hutch this time it's me who's not leaving, so I'm asking you stay. You can leave me your dad's money and our apartment but none of that stuff is going to make up for what I lost. Nothing is going to take away the pain of losing you. I know you have every reason to give up now but... _please_... just have the courage to live. I just _need_ you to live."

He sat unmoving for a moment, holding Hutch's hand in a vice-grip and his breath. He was waiting for something to happen, for Hutch to miraculously wake or suddenly die. But remaining still, he did neither.

Xx

Time passed at a vexing pace. Days and nights blurred together, transforming into an indecipherable mass of fragmented hours too numerous to count.

Hutch remained stable but lifeless. Eventually, the doctors changed their dialogue and begun to refer to his condition as persistent vegetative state. With a maddening combination of pity and sympathy shining in their eyes they warned Starsky of a future they seemed able to predict: Hutch's condition would never change and even if he did—he were to spontaneously awake one day—he would have no higher brain function than that which he was capable of in his coma. Never again would he be present in a meaningful way.

Furiously refusing to give up hope, Starsky ignored their words. Of course if Hutch woke up it would be _meaningful_. It would be the culmination of something important—it would mean that he had found the courage _live_.

Blaine kept his space and Dobey his promise to stay in touch; it was he who eventually alerted Starsky of the impending official meeting to discuss the events that had unfolded regarding the convoluted events that had led Blaine to shoot Hutch. Though Chief Ryan requested Starsky's presence, his first instinct was to refuse to attend.

"You have to go, pal," Huntley had urged. "You don't have a choice. No matter the fallout of what Ryan wants to say, being present in a meeting like that is a lot better than being absent. You stand them up and that sends one hell of a message."

Starsky was far from concerned about sending the wrong message to Bay City PD. They knew what he'd done and so did he. Nothing could change what had happened now, or the pain the future promised to bring. But after a series of intense conversations—what Hutch probably would have labelled as an overly-passionate set of arguments—Starsky finally conceded to follow Huntley's good intentioned advice.

It was a sunny Saturday morning that found Starsky walking the familiar hallways of Metro. Closing the wide gap between the parking garage and Chief Ryan's office on the ninth floor, he pulled absently on the sleeves of his flannel shirt and struggled to ignore the piercing gazes of the countless people he passed on way.

He should have worn a suit, he thought as nervousness gathered in the pit of his stomach, or at least slacks and boots instead of torn jeans and worn tennis shoes—as Chief Ryan's disdain for casual dress was notorious—then immediately dismissed the thought. He hadn't wanted to attend this meeting, what did he care if Ryan took issue with his wardrobe? After everything that had happened, what did he care what Ryan—or anyone—thought of him now?

"Hey, Starsky! Wait up!"

The statement halted Starsky in his tracks; he turned just in time to be wrapped in a half hug by Whitley.

Taken aback by the flamboyant, odd greeting, Starsky frowned. He hadn't spoken to Whitley in weeks; he hadn't seen him since the evening he had come to Venice Place to warn of Blaine and Dobey's impending arrival. In comparison to the way he had looked that evening, Whitley's jovial outlook was perplexing.

Didn't he remember what he had come to warn him about? How could Whitley so easily forget—or ignore—all the horrible crimes Starsky had committed?

"It's good to see you," Whitley added. "You look good, partner. Better. Rested."

"Yeah," Starsky muttered. The idea that he appeared better or more rested was ludicrous; he wasn't certain he remembered what either of those things felt like. Removing himself from Whitley's hold, he looked between the grinning man in front of him and the long empty hallway leading to Ryan's office. "I'm not your partner. At least, not anymore."

"You sure about that?" Whitley smiled in a knowing manner.

"What are you doing here?" _And why are you acting so damn happy?_ Starsky wanted add but didn't for fear of being wrapped up in another spontaneous hug. "The ninth floor is quite a trek from your neck of the woods, isn't it? Unless things have changed since I was Zebra, you belong on the fifth floor."

"Well, Dobey may have mentioned that you were coming in for a meeting and I may or may not have been waiting around to corner you once you showed up. It's been so long since I've seen you. How else am I supposed to talk to you? You don't answer my phone calls or texts—"

"Yeah, well, I've been busy."

Smile faltering, Whitley's face fell regretfully. "Oh, shit, man, of course you are. I didn't mean to insinuate that you didn't have intense stuff going on. How is Hutch? Amber and I… we keep meaning to stop by and say hi but we don't want to intrude. It just never seems like the right time, you know?"

Throat tightening, Starsky remained silent. He couldn't talk about Hutch—not now. Eyes setting on Chief Ryan's office door, he found himself overcome by apprehension as his despair over Hutch's condition and the uncertainty of the impending meeting overwhelmed him.

Why had he been called for an official meeting and why had Chief Ryan waited so long to make a move?

Dobey had told Starsky—nearly two months ago—that he wouldn't be held responsible for the homicides he had committed, but it was a hard thing to be certain of now. A part of him didn't want to be certain. If Hutch was going to die, if he was destined to live but never wake up, then what was the point of living a normal life without him? Someone needed to take responsibility for they had done—what their love for each other had prompted to do and become—someone need to make things right. Starsky couldn't bear it any other way.

The elevator chimed as the doors crawled open, displaying the pair to Captain Dobey as he emerged from the lift. His face was set in an unreadable expression as he nodded at Whitley, then waived his thick index finger at Starsky, indicating for him to follow him down the hall.

"Hey," Whitley whispered, clutching Starsky's arm comfortingly. "I'll be around after. Come find me, okay?"

"Sure."

Xx

Sitting in a soft polyester chair opposite Chief Ryan's large desk, Starsky leaned back, crossed his legs in an impatient manner then uncrossed them again. The chair was uncomfortable and so was he. He wasn't sure what he expected when following Captain Dobey through Chief Ryan's closed office door, but it wasn't what awaited him on the other side.

Face frozen sternly, Ryan assessed him coolly from his high-backed leather office chair; Dobey sat on Starsky's right, his face set with an emotion Starsky didn't recognize. Without an officer from IA it was too small of a panel for a disciplinary meeting and it was comprised of the wrong people if they were planning to arrest him. Usually they invited a couple of uniformed officers to attend those types of meetings.

Of course, Starsky thought cynically, maybe that was what Whitley was for. Perhaps, he was waiting in the hallway to be called in at the proper time.

"I suppose you're wondering why we asked you here today," Ryan said gruffly.

"Not really, but I'm guessing you're going to tell me anyway," Starsky retorted.

"David," Dobey warned.

"Starsky," Starsky said quickly, the bitter correction spilling from his mouth. He couldn't tolerate them addressing him by his first name, not after Hutch had favored it so long and not in a meeting like this. They could call him anything they wanted to but not that name. "The things some people won't do to get on a first name basis," he added lightly, his rigid body language contradicting the words as neither Dobey nor Ryan smiled. "Nobody calls me that. I prefer Starsky. That's how you've always referred to me; there's no reason for you to call me anything else, now."

"Starsky." Ryan nodded curtly as he smoothed his palms over the top of a dark file resting on the desk in front of him.

Starsky rolled his eyes. If Ryan had anticipated the overt presence of his personnel file would frighten or intimidate him then he had another thing coming. He didn't fear this meeting; he didn't fear anything at all. With Hutch laying comatose, slowly _dying_ in a hospital bed, he had nothing left to be afraid of and nothing left to loose. And Hutch would die—Starsky was certain of it. If he had yet to wake up there was nothing that would implore him to do so now. Neither calm, loving narrations of all the things he had left to live for nor furious diatribes accusing him of being a coward would prompt him to open his eyes.

"When was the last time you were home?" Ryan asked.

"Which one?" Starsky snorted humorlessly and Ryan and Dobey looked at each other through veiled eyes. "I've spent so much time at my Aunt and Uncle's house over the past couple of years that it's become sort of a bad joke. Their home is my home, too. So, when you ask me if I've been home, you're going to have to be more specific."

"Starsky," Ryan said firmly. "This is important, when was the last time you returned to the apartment you and Hutch shared?"

"Weeks." Starsky shrugged, feigning indifference. "Months. I've lost track of time; I don't really know. How-ever-long it's been since Blaine shot Hutch. Lucky—my dog—is at my aunt and uncle's place, so I've been staying at their house on-and-off. There hasn't been a reason for me to go back the apartment."

He cringed; the statement was true but it more of lie than anyone would ever know. His avoidance of Venice Place had less to do with Lucky's location and more to do with the whereabouts of something else. Fate had been in his apartment; she had spoken to him in the kitchen moments before he entered the basement. He hadn't had the courage to return—not alone, maybe not ever—he was too afraid of what he would find lingering in the dark corners, patiently awaiting his return.

"Where have you been spending the rest of your time?" Ryan pressed.

"Are you _fucking_ kidding?" Starsky seethed, overcome by the insensitivity of the question and a sudden furious thought: His life could have been different. If Ryan hadn't fired Hutch years ago, everything could have been so different than it was. "My husband is laying unresponsive in a hospital bed and you want to know where I've been spending _my_ time?"

Brows narrowing, Ryan sighed. "Can you please answer the question?" he asked flatly.

" _No_." Leaning back in his chair, Starsky crossed his arms stubbornly. "Why do you want to know? What difference does it make if I've been back to the apartment or not?" he asked as Dobey and Ryan exchanged a guarded glance.

"It make a difference," Ryan said. "Your answer will either allow us to end this meeting the way it was _planned_ or implore us to do something that we don't want to."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Starsky looked between Dobey and Ryan, his stomach churning uneasily. Neither man gave any indication of answering his question, he exhaled heartily, resigning himself to answering theirs. "I haven't been back to the apartment."

"Have you returned to the Marcus Compound since the night Hutchinson was shot?" Ryan asked.

"No." Starsky glared, anxiety clenching his heart by the very thought of returning to the compound. He would never go there again—there was nothing left in the world that would convince him to return to such a vile place. "Why does this matter? What does any of this have do with anything?"

"It has come to our attention there were a great many details concerning recent events that we don't understand, or have reasonable, _comfortable_ , explanations for," Ryan said.

"Starsky," Dobey said seriously. "I was there the night Blaine shot Hutch. I entered your apartment intent on finding and questioning you as a suspect in series of homicides but what happened after I cannot explain. There is no logical reason, no palatable explanation for anything that occurred that night."

"Like what?" Starsky asked.

"Like how the basement staircase located under your apartment could have transported Blaine and me where it did," Dobey said. "Or how the farmhouse on the Marcus compound was miraculously rebuilt and don't even get me started on the whispering in your kitchen—"

"The whispering in the kitchen?" Starsky repeated.

"There was _something_." Dobey shuddered in a haunted manner. "I don't know what. But it knew things, all sorts of things—"

" _Harold_ ," Ryan warned.

Starsky was dumfounded. "Fate spoke to _you_?" he asked, looking Dobey up and down. "Why would she? What happened to you? What would someone like you possibly have to offer…?"

"Enough," Ryan interjected and the firm word echoing through the office. "Gentlemen, the purpose of this meeting is not to discuss the things we don't understand. It is to finally communicate what we do." He looked at Starsky. His expression was indecipherable but in his eyes was a glint—the smallest knowing glisten that left Starsky feeling as though Ryan knew the truth but was somehow unable to hold him accountable for all the horrible things he had done. "Due to recent events and _emerging_ evidence, you are no longer a person of interest in the unsolved homicides of six felons and Callie Baker…"

"What?" Starsky breathed numbly.

"… On behalf of Bay City PD, I apologize for any inconvenience or detrimental events that may have occurred after Lieutenant Blaine arbitrarily removed you from his roster. Please understand that he was following department policy—"

"Wait," Starsky interrupted. "I don't understand. Why are you saying this? _How_ can you be saying _this_? When Blaine pulled me from the car you were all already convinced of my guilt! My behavior was unstable and incriminatory! I found the first two bodies and led Whitley to three more! You have witness placing me near the house that Hutch I shared the evening that Callie Baker and the sixth felon's bodies were discovered!" he yelled, his eyes shining with desperate anger. This was too much. They had known what he had done. If he didn't have Hutch, then he didn't have a reason to be seen as an innocent man. Everything had happened for a reason; someone had to be held responsible, and if his superiors wouldn't accuse him then he'd condemn himself. "You came to my house to _arrest_ me! You knew then what you somehow don't want to see now."

"Starsky," Dobey warned. "Stop."

"No!" Starsky insisted. "I can't stop. I don't understand. You have the _fucking_ evidence, don't you? You know what happened to me—you know how it all fits together. You know I couldn't get past—the _horrible things_ —that were done to me so I had to—"

"Stop!" Dobey repeated firmly, his penetrating gaze gleaming with sorrow as the word echoed through the room. "It doesn't matter now."

"Then what matters?" Starsky asked.

"Not this," Ryan said authoritatively. "Starsky, your _alleged_ guilt regarding this matter aside, I do not believe that pursing a case against you is in the best interest of anyone."

"But I had a scar!" Starsky roared, pointing his index finger at his bare cheek. "A universal mark, just like you found on the felons."

"Starsky," Ryan scoffed sadly. "You don't have a scar. You _never_ had a scar."

Hand falling limply in his lap, Starsky breath left his chest in a contemptuous gasp. Ryan was right but he was wrong too. He didn't have a scar. Thanks to modern medicine his cheek had healed, only the slightest hint of a pink line remained, reminding him of what Hutch had done to implore Blaine to shoot him. But he had had a scar; it had existed for nearly two years before Hutch healed it—somehow simultaneously erasing the mark on Starsky's cheek and memory of it in people's minds.

Was this the purpose of Hutch's action? Had he removed the mark then because in preparation for his impending death he needed to ensure Starsky was protected from the fallout of what was to come?

 _It isn't going to go down that way._ Starsky cringed as Hutch previous words reverberated through his mind. _You're not going to be convicted of those murders, and you certainly aren't going to be institutionalized._

"Why am I here?" Starsky asked. "Why would you call an official inquiry if you don't plan on holding me responsible for something?"

Dobey looked uncomfortable. "Starsky, I apologize, I should have explained this meeting better," he said quietly. "This isn't an inquiry."

"Then what is it?" Starsky asked and Dobey and Ryan considered each other for moment, an unspoken agreement lingering between them. "What's going on?"

"This isn't an inquiry," Ryan repeated, pulling an official letter from beneath the personnel file. Reaching for a silver pen in the lapel pocket of his suit jacket, he pushed both items across the table. "It's a reinstatement."

Xx

Contrary to his previous word, Starsky did not talk to Whitley after his meeting with Dobey and Blaine. He couldn't summon the energy to feign happiness or excitement about an opportunity he shouldn't have had while still feeling so weighted by everything that should have never taken place.

Though Ryan had given him his job back—something he had wanted for so long—he wasn't certain that he wanted or _deserved_ to have it back. He didn't know if he could entertain the idea without Hutch's stabilizing presence at his side. And silently captive to all the things he wasn't sure of he returned to the hospital and walked the hallways numbly before returning to the only place he knew with unwavering certainty that he wanted—and needed—to be.

"Did you plan this?" he asked quietly, his eyes locked on Hutch's still form. His husband didn't answer—not that Starsky expected him to—but sitting on the opposite end of the room someone else did.

"Plan what, pal?" Huntley asked from behind the glossy pages of Sports Illustrated.

"Nothing."

Leaning over the bed, Starsky pushed Hutch's bangs back and kissed his forehead. "Jesus, babe," he whispered. "You get any paler you're going to disappear."

"He's always been pale. Symptomatic of being a Midwesterner, I guess."

Kicking his tennis shoes off, Starsky sunk into a chair with a groan. "Did I miss anything?" he asked, trailing his fingers over the top of Hutch's lax hand.

"Nope. Nurses came and then went. It was business as usual around here. Your uncle stopped by. He sat with Hutch for a while and left some clean clothes for you and a stack of magazines."

Nodding, Starsky pretended not to notice how Huntley was peering at him over the top of the magazine pages. "Thus, the new Sports Illustrated, huh?"

"Yep."

Starsky smiled. His aunt and uncle had lingered, surrounding and guiding him with their comforting presence. They took care of him in small ways, bringing him laundry when too many days had passed without him returning to their home or sitting with him at Hutch's bedside or even with Hutch by themselves. They didn't push him to talk about what had happened—what had led Blaine to shoot Hutch, or even the odd conversation Al had overheard—they just existed, grounding him the simplest of ways, forever reminding Starsky that, despite the uncertainty what the future, he was never a alone.

Thinking of Ryan's offer, Starsky frowned. How was he supposed to explain his triumphant return to Dobey's team to Rosie and Al? Months ago, they hadn't wanted him to go back to uniform, how was he supposed to look them in the eye and respect a different response, now? He wasn't sure he wanted a different response.

"So," Huntley said expectantly. "Are you going to tell me what happened in that meeting or are you going to make me ask?"

"Hutch's stupid plan worked."

"What?"

"Nothing."

Starsky shook his head, rethinking his words. Maybe his serendipitous return to Bay City PD had nothing to do with Hutch and everything to do with what Dobey had heard—or seen, if anything.

"I am no longer a person of interest," he added, revealing as little as possible. Though Huntley had become a fixture at Hutch's side, he remained unware of Fate or the guilt and suspicion that had led everything to unfold the way it had.

"Well, we all knew that was going to happen, pal. I can't believe they had the audacity to finger you for those crimes. You would have never had anything to do with what happened to those felons."

"They gave me my job back."

"Under Blaine?" Huntley's face contorted with disgust. " _Jesus_ , that's going to be pretty awkward isn't it? I mean he is the reason we're all attending this little soiree around Hutch's hospital bed."

"No, Dobey. They want me to come back to special detail. He's planning on partnering me with Whitley, making us the new Zebra Five."

The magazine fluttered to the floor and Huntley's happy laughter filled the air as he strode across the room. "That's great!" he exclaimed, pulling Starsky to stand and enveloping him into fierce hug. "Fucking, Christ, pal! That's wonderful news!"

"Are you sure about that?" Starsky asked, his voice thick, his throat burning against sudden irrepressible tears. He should have been happy. He should have been relived that his meeting with Ryan and Dobey ended the way it had. But he was far from happy and less than relived.

"Because from where I'm standing it doesn't feel like that. It feels bad; it feels wrong, like… a consolation prize."

Or something else, he though torpidly. No matter how much he had wanted it before, the position on Dobey's team was neither a prize nor consoling. He didn't deserve it; he could never be who he once was, not after everything he had done, not without Hutch by his side. "I…I _can't_ take it. I can't _do_ it, not like this. I don't _want_ it like _this_."

"No. Hey, come on," Huntley soothed. "This is good news, Starsky. It was everything you wanted. This is why you returned to that uniform, pal; this is what you were working so hard to get back."

Clinging to Huntley, struggling to control his impending tears, Starsky wasn't sure what he had been working to regain or what had made him return to Blaine's team. The past was a fragmented blur of dread and confusion, apprehension and fear, and a depression that so deep and vast there were moments he was certain he would drown in its distorted depths. Though eclipsed by Fate, it was Hutch's presence that had kept him afloat.

And he didn't have that now.

But he had something else: a series of maddening statements Callie Baker had once said that threatened to sink him in an ocean of guilt and uncertainty. Emerging from the depths of his memory moments after leaving the meeting with Dobey and Ryan, they refused to be silenced as they echoed relentlessly in his head.

 _You're just like the rest of them, aren't you? You call yourself an officer of the law, a boy in blue tasked with protecting and defending the city. But just like the rest of the crooked law enforcement flunkies we're supposed to admire and respect, the only person you're protecting is yourself._

Though he didn't know if she had been right or wrong about him, he knew that Baker had been entirely too right about Bay City PD. Everything they didn't want to comment on—all the events they didn't understand and couldn't explain to the public—were destined to be ignored and buried in the interest of protecting themselves. They were protecting themselves now—just as Baker had predicted they would.

"I don't think I can do it," Starsky whispered brokenly into Huntley's shoulder. "I'm a completely different person than I was before. I-I'm scared and broken… I-I'm a coward."

"Starsky you are none of those things," Huntley assured.

"But I am. You don't know, Luke. You don't know me; you don't know what the last two years have turned me into. How am I supposed to do any of this without Hutch? How I am supposed to live the rest of my life without him?"

"He wouldn't want you to think that way. _I_ don't want you to think that way."

"Not wanting to see the truth doesn't make it any less true," Starsky whispered desolately.

Ryan and Dobey had wanted to hold him responsible for the crimes he had committed but without his incriminating scar they no longer had enough. They wouldn't accuse him now for fear that it would implore him to talk to the press about all the things destined to never have a reasonable or palatable explanation, awakening critical dialogue questioning why he had been allowed to return to work after his extended absence. He understood their motives for exonerating him clearly, but why they were allowing him to return to Dobey's team, he didn't understand.

"Not being able to explain how or why something happened doesn't mean it didn't happen," he continued. I don't deserve to go back. I don't deserve to live my life, not after the horrible things I did."

"Starsky," Huntley whispered, his voice gentle but firm. "You can do this. You'll return to Dobey's team because you have to. What the hell are you going to do if you're not one of us, huh? It's who you are, pal, remember? You're third generation law enforcement, being a cop is in _your_ blood."

Clinging to Huntley, Starsky wondered what else was in his blood and who had protected him from the consequences of the horrific choices he had made. Though a series of violent murders had led Blaine and Dobey to follow him into the basement of Venice Place no one could explain what they didn't want to understand and Fate's presence remained as incomprehensible and guiding as it ever had.

Why Fate had spoken to Dobey, Starsky would never understand. It wasn't Starsky she had wanted—he wasn't the one she had been desperate to have. Why would she reveal herself to someone else? Why would she chose to save him, now?

And her actions coupled with Hutch's plan did save him—Starsky was sure of it. Because, despite Chief Ryan's intensions to present otherwise, Dobey had convinced him there was something lurking in darkness worthy of fear that needed to be dealt with covertly and quietly, and days later it was.

Under the cover of darkness, the property that was once referred to as the Marcus Compound was confined by a barbwire fence, the entry was gated, and the farmhouse was set aflame; simultaneously, miles away, standing tall in the moonlight, Venice Place spontaneously and inexplicably burned to the ground; and Hutch, lying motionless in a hospital bed, his lax hand settled between Starsky's own, finally opened his eyes.


	58. END PART TWO

Epilogue:

Sitting on the wooden patio steps leading to Rosie and Al's back yard, Starsky rested his elbows on his jean covered knees, laced his fingers together, and smiled. It was perfect afternoon, sunny and mild, and he was determined to appreciate every moment of this particular day, to somehow learn to take pleasure in the small things and comfort in one of life's most steadfast certainties: Time.

If truth was not fluid than neither was time. Every morning the sun rose and every evening it set, bringing new day after new day, graciously allotting them more time and another chance to get things right.

It was amazing what a little time could do. It could heal bodies and minds. It could make once insurmountable problems seem small. It could cloud past indiscretions, leaving them feeling like disjointed images from a bad dream. It could ease immense pain, foster forgiveness and slowly piece together relationships that had seemed so hopeless and lost.

Emerging from his coma, Hutch's mind had been too fragmented, his recovering body too embedded with stiffness and pain to immediately allow him to be who he once was. Dulled by the medications racing through his veins, he remained incognizant for weeks. Remaining a fixture at his side, Starsky watched as little-by-little Hutch came around, becoming more and more like the man he had once known and loved. There were the slightest of differences between the Hutch of years ago and the one who had woken up—he was eternally tired, quieter than Starsky recalled him being and twice as irritable—though if these things were symptomatic of the trauma he had been through or something to be wary of, Starsky was unsure. But he watched, with reckless optimism and giddy joy, as Hutch made small steps then massive strides before finally being deemed healthy enough to be discharged from the hospital.

Starsky didn't dare ask any questions about Fate until one day he did; Hutch's response was neither predicable nor satisfying. He had said he didn't remember a thing. He had no recollection of what it had felt like to be linked to her, or the things her presence had implored either of them to do. He didn't recall Jack Mitchell living with them or even the day he and Starsky had been married. It was as though two years of life had disappeared, vanishing in an instant, leaving Hutch seemingly confused and Starsky on what felt like increasingly unsteady ground. Given the trauma he had experienced, memory loss was reasonable complication and Hutch's doctors didn't seem surprised.

Though Starsky wanted to, he wasn't sure he believed that Hutch couldn't remember _anything—_ because occasionally he would look at him the in the oddest way, his face falling with a devastated mixture of shame and grief that hinted at so much more than Starsky knew Hutch would ever admit. He wasn't sure—he could never _really_ be sure—that Hutch was telling the truth, but Starsky knew he didn't care, because whether he ever decided to remember it or not, Hutch had _chos_ e.

Hutch could have died but he didn't.

Fate was gone and Hutch had lived and that was all that mattered—at least, that was what Starsky told himself. Though, ever-so-often, he would question the validity of his assertion, he did everything he could to silence his doubt. He didn't _want_ to care, or give Fate's damaging presence any more power—any more thought—than he already had. The life they had known two years ago—or even two months ago—was over.

Nothing was as it once was, nothing could be as it had been and for that Starsky was grateful.

It was amazing how much the events of the past didn't matter anymore—not when Hutch was _alive_ and nearly the same person Starsky remembered from years ago. There were too many good things to hold on to than to remain hostage to the pain of the past. Simple things that meant more to him than anything ever had before that seemed to nullify each and every bad memory Starsky had. They made everything he had gone through worth it somehow.

Like the relief shining in Lucas Huntley's eyes when he saw Hutch was awake, or the tender—paternal—way the elder man had kissed Hutch's forehead and cried with relief.

Or the way Aunt Rosie and Uncle Al had sat at Hutch's bedside, speaking to him softly while Starsky lingered unseen outside of the door. They had told him that they loved him; they had said that he was as important to them as Starsky would ever be.

Or how Huggy had made a point of cheerfully bringing Hutch his favorite foods, sneaking them into the hospital room though they were contraband on the afternoons Hutch was bored and in need of a distraction.

Or the sound of Hutch talking after being silent for months. The way he had looked when he clenched Starsky's hand and whispered, _"How you doing, Starsk?"_ Starsky had been so overcome by happiness that he had kissed Hutch for the first time in years.

Or the sensation of the kisses that followed—the ones Starsky had initiated because he could and wanted to— the softness of Hutch's lips of as they pressed against his own, contradicting the gruffness of their stubble covered cheeks.

Or the joy of grasping Hutch's hand and having him reciprocate the action and squeeze tight. What it was like to embrace his warm, familiar body and hold him tightly without feeling the dark uncertainty that had once threatened to engulf them, or to hold Hutch's blue eyes with his own and not feel the slightest bit threatened or see a glint of anything that didn't belong.

What did the past—what did anything that happened in the past two years—matter in comparison to any of that? Or in comparison to this moment, which was decidedly pure and destined to be remembered alongside the others.

Emitting a series of enthusiastic chirps, Lucky quickly transferred his weight from paw to paw. It had been so long since the Dalmatian had danced like this, his shoulders sinking and rising as he moved his neck to purposefully place lick after lick on Hutch's face. His dark eyes gleamed with excitement and unabashed love. Each sound emerging from his fur covered chest seemed to say everything Starsky was still unable to: _I love you and I missed you. I am so happy you decided to come back to us._

Crouching in front of the exuberant dog, Hutch's familiar laughter trickled through the afternoon air, intermixing beautifully with the sunshine beaming into the fenced backyard, leaving Starsky overcome by gratefulness and joy and an overwhelming sense of contentment.

Despite what they had been through, they would be okay. Starsky would return to work, not for himself but to honor the people whose lives Fate had implored him to take. Alongside Whitley, he would rebuild the career that had once seemed so lost, and Hutch would _live_.

There would be arguments and tears, good days and bad, loving moments and difficult discussions. Without Venice Place, they didn't have a home, but they had each other and they didn't need any more than that. They were stronger together than they were apart; they needed each other—and that was something that would never change.

It wasn't the end but it was the end of everything they had known. Letting go of the past, their respective secrets and lies they would hold on to their love for each other and began again.

They would begin at the end.

END PART TWO


	59. PART THREE

**The Things We Lost in the Fire: Part Three**

* * *

 _No one can tell what goes on in-between the person you were and the person you become. No one can chart that blue and lonely action of hell. There are no maps of the change. You just come out the other side. Or you don't._

 _-Stephen King_

 _You are in my blood like holy wine. You taste so bitter and so sweet._

 _-Joni Mitchell_

 _A little voice inside my head said: Don't look back. You can never look back._

 _-Don Henley_

* * *

 **Six Months Later:**

 _The forest was still and quiet._

 _It was the calm after the storm. Ignited by a lighting strike, the fire had burned white-hot, exploding into existence as the tip of the bolt hit the trunk of a towering dead tree. Engulfing the material it was born from the flames grew and traveled quickly. Devouring land and animal, the indomitable inferno ravished anything and everything in its path before, eventually, burning down to somber ambers piles shining in the peculiar darkness of a motionless night._

 _The sun eventually rose but the darkness remained, seeping into every rock and crevice, every hole in every tree, leaving devastation in its wake. Thick, gray ash clung to air, floating listlessly only to land on the ground and intermix with toppled charred branches laying among the bottoms of the soaring skeletal trees._

 _He stood immobile, dreadfully frozen in place. Bare feet sinking into the debris covered ground, pain-prompted goosebumps peppered his naked skin—an ignored request by his body to heed the pain biting the bottom of his cracked, bleeding feet and the suffocating thickness of the air. Breaths coming in deep-chested gasps, wide eyes locked on the object before him, he was too preoccupied with his terror to pay attention to anything else. Sitting untouched in the ground was a familiar square, a steel entry to a bunker. He was deserted, left alone to contend with the vastness of the foreboding woods, abandoned as he stared aimlessly at the entry to the bunker he wished he had never seen._

 _How many times had he stood in front of this place? How many years had he allowed the long-buried memories to disturb his thoughts and dreams? And how many more would he allow himself to be haunted by someone else's terrible mistakes?_

 _He shouldn't remember this forest. He shouldn't have to be burdened with knowledge of a place like this. The land was evil, desolate and disturbed, forever tarnished by the secrets kept by the tiny bunker, hidden deep in the Minnesota woods._

The alarm went off, an annoying high-pitched beep that seemed intent on embedding itself into the very fibers of his brain. Opening his eyes, Hutch extended his arm, rested his open palm on the empty other side of the bed, and stared at the ceiling of a bedroom he wished he had never had the pleasure of sleeping in. Not that it was a bad room—it wasn't— it just wasn't _his_ room. Or _their_ room, rather. The one he and Starsky—his once longtime partner and now husband—had once shared. In fact, the ceiling he was staring up at, while the alarm clock bellowed its incessant beeps, wasn't even in _their_ house because their house had been lost. Venice Place had become yet another thing that hadn't been able to survive amongst the fallout of Hutch's horrible mistakes.

Stretching on the floor beside the bed, Lucky groaned; then looking between Hutch and the wailing alarm, he emitted an irritated whine. Hutch snorted. He wasn't the only one frustrated with their current predicament, it seemed.

Pulling himself from the bed, he stood, wincing as his body protested the quick movement, enveloping his torso in sharp jolts of pain. Muscle spasms were to be expected, at this point in his recovery, but that didn't make them any more tolerable. Sinking to sit on the edge of the bed, he leaned over, wrapping his left arm around his torso and slapping the snooze on the alarm clock. Fingers lingering on the large button, his brow furrowed, his blue eyes setting on the dark words written in a black Sharpie on the black of his hand.

 **Huggy's at 2**

 **Don't stand me up!**

The writing was familiar; the message repetitive. It was the same notice Starsky had written on his hand countless times since he had returned to work nearly three months ago. A bid—order—to meet him at The Pits. However, the proposed time today was distinct divergence from any of the rest. Usually it was later, closer to dinner time—and happy hour. Two p.m. was a surprise. It was early and _odd_ —not that Hutch really wanted to think about the peculiarity of the hour. He had enough odd things floating around in his mind these days.

But the number two, well, that was just too damn hard to ignore.

Some people believed in the power of numbers, studying reoccurring ones as though each provided transcendent influence and a deeper meaning than just a random curve of pen strokes on a page. They called it numerology and thought it could explain or predict key events in one's life. Though Hutch had never really been interested in such a thing, he couldn't deny his own reoccurring experiences; he couldn't refute that his life had been irrevocably transformed by the number two.

Two weeks he was kept captive by his uncle as a child, hidden in an abandoned bunker deep in the Minnesota woods. Two years he had allowed Fate to control and influence him—and Starsky by association—to do horrible, unforgivable things. He had died twice after being shot; two months he had been captive to a coma while his body struggled to mend itself from the damage John Blaine's two bullets had caused. He and Starsky had lived in two houses together, and, now Hutch wondered if they'd ever find a third.

Looking around the small bedroom littered with the scattered monuments of Starsky's adolescence, Hutch frowned. He was tired of waking up here. Sick of imposing on Starsky's aunt and uncle's daily lives and taking up space in their home. It was stifling and awkward; though, neither Starsky nor Rosie nor Al seemed to be aware of how claustrophobic and wrong it felt. Those feelings seemed to belong exclusively to Hutch, as the other three people existing around him continued on with their lives as though Starsky and Hutch sharing Starsky's childhood bedroom was normal.

It wasn't normal all. It was significant, an unsettling testament to everything that had happened. Proof that everything that had taken place between the time Hutch and Starsky had accepted the Brian Blackwell case and when Blaine had shot Hutch in the refurbished farmhouse on the Marcus Compound hadn't been a dream. It had been real. It had all been heart-wrenchingly real.

Hutch didn't remember everything that had happened after he accepted Fate into his body and mind and soul, but what he did was enough.

He hadn't recalled the details at first.

Waking up in the hospital, surrounded by Starsky and Lucas Huntley, he hadn't remembered a thing. Instinctively, he had known that something bad had happened. The tubes running the distance between himself and the foreboding medical machinery and the odd heavy, tingling numbness enveloping his body were both proof of that. But he hadn't known what, and Starsky— _Jesus_ , _Starsky_ —had looked disheveled but joyful as big tears trailed down his cheeks, the wet glisten highlighting the large, dark tired bags under his eyes. He hadn't wanted to talk about what had happened; he hadn't wanted to tell Hutch anything. He was afraid of what the disclosure would do. In that moment, Starsky was terrified that speaking of whatever painful events had taken place between them would somehow implore Hutch to return to the safety of his coma. It was a ridiculous notion, Hutch remembered thinking that; though he hadn't quite understood how or why he had known Starsky was thinking such a thing. He had been exhausted, his mind fatigued, his memories shrouded and fragmented; he hadn't realized the oddness of his certain knowledge at the time.

In fact, he hadn't realized how much he really knew about people—things he had no business, no logical reason, to be privy to—until much, much later.

Rising from a coma had been like waking from a prolonged dream. Though fragmented and fleeting, Hutch's memories of Fate seemed impossible, improbable even. He likened each sliver of truth he unwillingly recalled to nothing more than an unconscious fantasy, so detailed and vivid that it took time to shake its unsettling remnants from each fiber of his brain. And he may have been able to convince himself that they were, if not for the glint of painful shame glistening in Starsky's eyes and the cluster of solid dark memories emerging from the depths of his mind, demanding to be recalled. He was different; Starsky was different— _they_ were different, together and apart, but Hutch remained helpless to discern what it was that had changed between them.

Though tired, Starsky was a pillar of strength. Stubborn and unyielding, he had remained a fixture at Hutch's side throughout the duration of his hospital stay. He had watched with careful hope and forced enthusiasm as Hutch's body slowly healed. His presence was coaxing and resolute, gentle and _forgiving_. He didn't talk about what had happened between them; he didn't want to waste time entertaining the mistakes of the past. He didn't ask any questions about Fate or the events that had brought them both there until one day he did.

 _"Hutch?"_ Starsky had asked, voice hushed but firm. Clutching Hutch's hand in both of his own, he sat pressed up against him on the tiny hospital bed, the width of which could barely contain them both, and finally summoned the courage to ask a question he was both anticipating and dreading the answer to: _"Do you…? Do you remember anything about what happened? How or why you were shot?"_

Heart pounding in his chest, Hutch had shook his head. The action was impetuous; given the opportunity to repeat it, he was certain he wouldn't respond the same way. He had remembered how he had engaged himself with Fate—or at least he had begun to. It the first of many lies he would tell. In time, others would follow, ranging in size and importance. It wasn't intentional; it was just as people often said: Old habits die hard. He would often wonder if Starsky already somehow knew each snippet of truth he still fearfully struggled to conceal.

When he had returned to Bay City after allowing Fate to attach herself to him, Hutch quickly learned to distance himself from the people he once cared about. Huggy, Lucas Huntley, Rosie and Al all became a cluster of folks whom he avoided like a plague. It wasn't personal; it was necessary. His avoidance was as much for their preservation as it was for his own; he didn't want to be privy to their deepest secrets as much as they didn't want to share them. But the clairvoyant power Fate had imposed upon him made ignoring them impossible.

While he shared a kinship with Fate Simon Marcus had known things and Hutch had too; though, how the mysterious ability presented itself was unexpected in its normalcy. It was easy; requiring no work, it was something that happened unconsciously and only required proximity.

Hutch would look at people and with their mouths closed and expressions guarded, their souls would whisper their darkest deeds and fears. They were never cognizant of their silent disclosures but each time his mind was bombarded with the maddening, hissing of a secret better left untold, Hutch knew he would be irrevocably changed. There was no way he could ever be the same. Not knowing what he knew; not living with the memory of what he had done.

It was comical—when Hutch considered it now— how taken aback he had been when Simon Marcus first alluded that he knew his deepest, darkest truth, all the details about his childhood trauma that had been carefully obscured. Hutch and had been scandalized, angry, and _threatened_.

How could this man know everything he never wanted to share?

At the time, he hadn't been able to figure it out, but he knew now what Marcus had known then. It was as maddening as it was simple; the moment Marcus first saw them, Starsky and Hutch's souls had whispered the truth. Marcus had known about Hutch's past the first day he and Starsky had visited him on the compound. It was the day that Fate had set her vicious sights on him and armed with Hutch's secrets, his anger, pain, and fear, she began crafting her plan. She had wanted him from the start—Hutch knew that—but in order to have him she needed to hurt Starsky; she needed to break them apart. And over time, she did.

Rummaging through the dresser he and his husband shared, Hutch sighed. The small drawers were barely large enough to accommodate one person's clothing, let alone two, and the tiny bedroom closet wasn't much better. Hanging neatly or shoved haphazardly in a drawer, their joint belongings barely fit into the space confining them. Which was surprising because after Venice Place had gone up in flames, destroying all their earthy possessions, burning down to an ash covered mound of rubble, they had been left with nothing. The things they had obtained in the interim were minimal—strictly necessities—clothing, various toiletries and health related items, but even so they were busting at the seams, over-crowded in a juvenile bedroom barely large enough to accommodate a teenager.

Gathering a plain green pocket t-shirt and pair of jeans, Hutch made his way to the claustrophobic bathroom down the hall. Lucky chased after him, skidding to a stop outside of the door, his ears perking up as he listened to the tell-tale sound of dishes clanking in the kitchen and inspected the familiar bathroom from afar.

"What are you gonna do, buddy?" Hutch asked, absently wondering if the question was something he should be asking himself. What was he going to do? What was he going to make of his newfound knowledge about the people surrounding him? What would he do with his second chance? It wasn't out-of-the ordinary for Lucky to accompany him in the bathroom while he showered. In fact, since Hutch had been discharged from the hospital, the loyal dog rarely left his side. His presence was welcome, comforting and grounding; Hutch didn't mind having the dog underfoot. So many things in his life had changed, it was nice to know that one thing never would. "Are you in or out?"

Yawning, Lucky stared at him a moment longer, then, seemingly satisfied with Hutch's ability to navigate his morning routine alone, he stood and strode lazily to inspect the alluring noises coming from the kitchen.

Hutch closed the bathroom door, tossing his clean clothes into a pile at his feet and looking at his reflection in the mirror. His chest was bare, the paleness of his skin highlighting the red, puckered scars John Blaine's bullets had left behind. He didn't like to look at them; he tried his best not dwell on the past. But sometimes it demanded to be heard and properly recalled, presenting itself in painful spasms beneath the elevated mounds of clustered scar tissue and nerves. The pain was intense, the brief memories accompanying the jolting sting were almost worse. Normally, he could negotiate one or the other—the aching from his still healing physical wounds or the shameful pain attached to the horrible things he had allowed himself to do. The memory of what Fate had beseeched him to become.—but he couldn't tolerate both, not at the same time. It was too much pain to successfully negotiate on his own.

Starsky tried his best to help. Blissfully unaware of Hutch's emerging memories—each torrid detail insisting to be recalled—he tried to ease his husband's physical pain in whatever way he possibly could. A careful massage, heating pad or ice pack pressed to Hutch's chest with his gentle, diligent hands. Sometimes his loving administrations worked, sometimes they didn't, and more often than not a particularly ruthless bout of spasms would find them both in bed, Hutch's back pressed firmly against his husband's chest as Starsky held him tight. During those times Hutch would be reminded of how his husband's love could help or hinder, how his gentle touch could ease or aggravate his discomfort—and guilt.

 _"Scars are interesting, aren't they?"_ the words echoed through Hutch's mind as he stared at his blemished chest. At one time the question had been his own. The words that had followed had been planted by the pain attached to the long buried scars created in childhood, the terrible memories of what his uncle had done and how ill-equipped his parents had been to deal with any of the trauma he had endured. The more brutal memories of that time had been awoken by Fate, the intense shame and pain of which had been intensified and eventually placated while he remained under her protective spell. He knew he had posed the question about scars to Starsky when his husband had been grappling with a particularly difficult day. He had spoken the words with good-intentions but they haunted him now. He couldn't ignore their staggering truth—something he still wasn't prepared to accept. _"They fade with time, but they're always there. You can ignore their presence, try to conceal them beneath other things, but they never really go away. Their pain defines you; they change you in a way that can never be explained; they fill you with fear and leave you grappling with the weight of all the painful events of the past you can't change."_

Shaking his head, he dismissed the statements. There was little point to agonizing over the past today. Rubbing his palms over his stubble-covered cheeks, he thought about shaving then changed his mind. He no longer had a good reason to do such thing and there was no one he needed to impress. Besides, he had come to like the gruff, dark blond hairs sprouting out over the lower half of his face. They made him look different than he ever had appeared before; the short beard made him look less like his father, which was reason enough to keep it as his strong likeness to the deceased man was a hard fact to dispute these days.

Richard Hutchinson had been tall, blue-eyed and blond, all favorable attributes he had passed on to his son, but with good there was always bad, and if Hutch hadn't been born an intensely-private person than it was a personality trait that had been instilled into him by his father at an early age. It was his father—regrettably prompted by his uncle Kenneth's horrific behavior—who had taught Hutch that deceit was more favorable than sincerity. It was he who had instilled a deep-seeded fear of disclosing the truth.

 _"This isn't your fault, Kenneth,"_ Richard had said, during the last telephone conversation they had ever had. _"None of it is."_

It was months before the elder man's death but Hutch still recalled how odd the statement had been. Though it was everything he had ever wanted his strict father to say, the words hadn't felt the way he had expected them to. Instead of empowered, Hutch had felt inept, vulnerable and sad.

 _"You can't control people. What they do or how they chose to treat you,"_ Richard continued. _"But you are responsible for what happens now. You have cornered yourself. You have built your life on a set of precarious lies and a series of misguided decisions and now you have to decide how to negotiate your way out of them. You have to decide who you are, if the person you have allowed yourself to become is who you want to be."_

Clenching the sides of the sink, Hutch hung his head. He hadn't known how to implement his father's advice into action then and somehow he felt more incapable to do such a thing now. He had no idea who he was or who he wanted to be but he was haunted by their final conversation.

Shrouded by moonlight, he had stood on the beach near the home he and Starsky had shared; fighting emotion he had removed his shoes, pressing his feet deep into the moist sand, and held his iPhone in a tightly clenched fist. He stood there for what felt like hours before finally giving into the only option he felt like he had left. And he had called his father because it was what he had always done when his life felt impossible to negotiate—when he needed someone to tell him what to do or help him clean up yet another mistake—when he felt he had no one left to trust.

That night his father's advice had been painful, sickening, and fury inducing.

 _"Come home, son, and we can work all this out. Everything will be fine but only if you come home."_

Hutch hadn't wanted to do that. He hadn't been ready; it was too soon to give up on something he held so dear. Two weeks later his father had died, and now, two years later, Hutch didn't have a home to return to. But he had the memories of everything he had said and done; he carried the heartbreak of their final late night phone call, the fallout of the horrible day he realized he wasn't the only one who had favored lies over truth.

And when Hutch thought about it—when he _really_ considered all the maddening events that had taken place, why he had pushed to accept the Brian Blackwell case or what had drawn him to the Marcus Compound and eventually Fate—he could trace the motivation for his actions back to that night. The hopelessness that had encased him, the all-enveloping sense of betrayal that had shattered his life and left him reeling as he questioned everything he thought he knew. It was knowledge that had facilitated the final phone to his father and given birth to something beyond his control. He had felt alone, and, worse, he had felt a brutal vindictive anger began to grow. Beginning in the pit of his stomach it traveled upward, embedding itself in every beat of his pounding heart.

Starsky had lied, too. He was the one person Hutch had allowed himself to trust and he had lied about everything.

Xx

Swiftly showering, Hutch dressed hastily, tossing his dirty clothes and towel into the small textile laundry bin he and Starsky shared. Shoved underneath the two-legged pedestal sink, the container was overflowing and yet another thing that didn't seem capable of accommodating both their needs for an extend period of time. He considered the towering pile, wondering if he wanted to wash their dirty laundry or wait and ask his husband for help. His physician had released him weeks ago from heavy object restriction, but the decree had meant nothing to Starsky. He had a fit if he lifted so much as pillow—or a finger.

But Hutch never had been any good at accepting help or asking for it.

Grasping the bin, he hoisted it high and carried it to the garage. His chest ached slightly from the exertion; grimacing, he powered through, dumping all the dirty clothing into one oversized load. It felt good to do something, to take initiative rather than waiting aimlessly around. He always had been a man of action, and he had long grown tired of feeling stuck in place.

Xx

"Morning," Hutch grunted, emerging from the doorway connecting the garage and the kitchen.

"Good morning." Uncle Al said, appraising Hutch carefully as he sat on the opposite side of the breakfast table. "Davy still asleep?"

"Nah. He left early."

"He's been doing that a lot lately, hasn't he?"

"Nature of the job, Al. When you're knee-deep in a homicide investigation your free-time isn't your own. One second you're off the clock and one phone call later you're back on. There's no way to predict where you're gonna be at any given time."

"I suppose you're right."

"Of course, I'm right," Hutch muttered.

Avoiding Al's gaze, he rubbed his thumb over the writing covering his forehand. Though his morning shower had faded the dark words, it hadn't erased them. He had no desire to complete the rest of the day with his husband's writing on the back of his hand. The block lettering was condemning, hinting to the outside eye of Hutch's lingering inability to be reached via cellphone like a normal, competent human being. But, surprisingly, the thought of Al seeing Starsky's repetitive messages scribbled on the back of his hand didn't bother Hutch near as much as he thought it should.

They had a good rapport, not unlike Starsky's own relationship with his uncle. Gruff yet soft spoken, Al was endlessly wise, always a source of good-advise and support. His ability to talk about deeper topics without really speaking in their terms always took Hutch by surprise; the elder man's quiet strength and steadfast stability was comforting. He was always capable of weathering the worst of situations and finding a sliver-lining in even the darkest of storm clouds. Sometimes Hutch caught himself wondering how different his life would have been had his father been just a little bit like Al.

"Is Davy still writing all over you?" Al chuckled, his lips curling behind the lip of his coffee mug.

"Yeah."

"You know, if took yourself down to the AT&T and finally got a new cellphone he wouldn't be scribbling on you like a teenage girl before he heads out. He'd have a better way to get in touch with you while he's gone."

Hutch frowned; he was growing tired of this particular topic. It was the only thing he and Starsky seemed to talk about anymore; the tired discussion hung over them like a cloud threatening rain—or at the least a very heated argument.

"I don't want one," Hutch said. "It's… _imposing_. I don't like the idea of having my day interrupted by text messages and phone calls. If someone really wants to speak to me, they know where they can find me and what number to call."

"Davy's," Al provided thoughtfully. "Well, I applaud your stubbornness and your willingness to allow your other-half to act as your message service and screen your phone calls. I don't like the idea of cellphones myself, but I'm old-school. Someone your age not wanting to have a cellphone is unheard of, especially given how connected your job used to require you be. You can't deny how odd how it all seems. You're an old soul, kiddo."

Hutch snorted. Though Al's assessment was apt, his logic was flawed, built upon a half-truth that Hutch had carefully voiced. He didn't want to be connected, that was true, but there were other things that owning a smartphone would enable Starsky to do that gave Hutch pause. Data and GPS coordinates could be easily accessed at any time, and given the state of their marriage, Hutch was hesitant to give his husband anything else to obsess over—or be wary of. What Starsky didn't know wouldn't hurt them—or him, rather.

"Well, you do what you think is best. You always seem to make good decisions." Pushing back his chair, Al stood, collected his coffee cup, and strode to the sink. "You mind if I take Lucky to the car lot today?" he asked. Gathering a clean mug from the cabinet, he filled it with warm coffee from the nearly full pot on the counter. "He's turning into a hell of salesman."

"Sure," Hutch agreed, though he felt a pang of sadness of having to face the emptiness of the day alone. Rosie, Al, and Starsky all had jobs; lives outside the comforting walls of the house that contained them during their free time; Hutch, however, did not. Accompanying Al to the car lot at least once a week, even Lucky seemed to be gainfully employed, trading the honor of his jubilant presence for affectionate pets and various treats from Al's staff and customers.

"What do you have planned for today?" Al asked. Placing the coffee mug on the table in front of Hutch, he squeezed his shoulder in a comforting manner.

Hutch lifted his hand, waiving Starsky's faded writing in a non-committal fashion. "Lunch, I guess. It's chose your own adventure before and after that."

Al smiled. "I never get tired of hearing you say that."

"Say what?"

"Choose your own adventure; it means you've really become one of us."

"Oh… Well, Starsky says that sometimes."

"I know he does," Al said proudly. "We all do. It's one of those things, private-joke-type-mottos that families come up with over the years. I used to say that to him when he was just a little boy. I stole it from those books he used to bring home from the middle school library. You know, the ones where you read a bit and then it makes you chose what happens next."

"Choose your own adventure books," Hutch finished, reaching for his coffee mug. "Yeah, I know. I read them as a kid, too."

"Then you know how important the choices you make are," Al said lightly. "So, make good ones today, okay?" He pointed an authoritative index finger at Hutch as he strode toward the connecting garage door. "You're still healing. Don't do too much. I promise I won't tell Davy you're doing laundry, but only if you swear to get some rest and take it easy otherwise. I'm gonna grab Lucky from the backyard and head out. Come see us at the lot after lunch if you get bored."

Contrary to the good intentioned advice, they both knew that Hutch would never do such a thing. Very rarely was he ever bored, not these days, not with all the secrets he had floating around in his head, not with the sporadic fragmented memories that seemed intent on emerging from the depths of his mind. He didn't need be reminded how important choices could be, how the right ones always seemed so difficult to make and the damage the wrong ones often left behind.

"Sure thing," Hutch agreed arbitrarily to the empty kitchen; Al was already gone.

Xx

Hutch hung around the house for a bit, flipping through the pages of crinkled sports magazines and various TV channels broadcasting irreverent daytime programing. Neither were equipped to maintain his attention for very long; the magazines he had already read and he had little interest in wasting time watching TV.

Pacing the hallway, he decided to take a walk. He would have preferred a run but the high-impact exertion jostled his chest in an excruciating way and left him struggling to breath, fighting to take even the smallest of agonizing gasps for air. He hadn't been cleared for such an exercise yet; it would probably take a more few weeks for his physician to allow him to jog—and given his tendency to be fiercely overprotective, Starsky wouldn't allow it for months. However, walking was accepted and encouraged, and Hutch, usually with Lucky in tow, had found himself slowly exploring Rosie and Al's neighborhood on more than one occasion.

The surroundings were idyllic and peaceful; the sidewalk placed in front of the lines of modest houses seemed to stretch on indefinitely. His solitary travels were coveted and rare. It seemed to be the only time he could truly be alone with his thoughts, when someone wasn't covertly watching him, secretly gaging his reactions, recovery, or mood. He looked forward to liberating himself from the claustrophobic house confining him, seeking respite in the vast neighborhood.

Emerging out of Al and Rosie's front door, Hutch looked at John Blaine's house directly across the street. A chill crawled up his spine and a spark of anger flickered in his chest; he had been forced to survive the bullets Blaine had embedded into his body and now he was required to live across the street, in direct view, of a house belonging to the man who had not only tried to kill him, but who had also engaged in a sordid affair with Starsky for years.

While captive to Fate, Hutch had anticipated Starsky's decision to come clean about his scandalous involvement with John Blaine; though, he never could have predicted how the admission would eventually make him feel. Tethered to Fate, protected by her all-encompassing influence, he had felt nothing. After all, the information wasn't new to him and Starsky was foolish to ever believe that it was.

It wasn't Fate who had told Hutch Starsky's secret; it wasn't the clairvoyant power she had endowed upon him in the dark bunker hidden on the Marcus Compound that had allowed him to know such a thing. He had known about Starsky's betrayal for months prior to embarking on the Brian Blackwell investigation, he just hadn't yet decided what he wanted to do—what he needed to do. If he should ignore the heart-wrenching truth he had accidently become privy to or confront his longtime partner. He couldn't seem to make a decision about how to handle such a delicate thing, as one choice seemed to leave him on the path of living with Starsky by his side, the other nearly promised that they would be torn apart. At the time, Hutch wasn't certain he wanted either of those things. He knew he was hurt; he knew that being privy to Starsky's infidelity had cut him deeper than he thought anything still could; he knew that he needed time, maybe even space to figure out what to do to, and prior to his father's unexpected death, he had thought he had all the time in the world.

He was wrong.

Hutch had returned from his father's funeral to find that everything around him had begun moving too fast, and devastated and furious, he hadn't even bothered to keep up. Looking for a distraction, he had forced Starsky's hand with the Blackwell investigation out of spite. After meeting Simon Marcus he begun engaging in the maddening tug-of-war Fate had planned. Everything had happened so quickly that he didn't know what to do. Starsky had been taken, Marcus had died, Hutch lost his career and, suddenly, there was no going back.

There would be no going back. Nothing was as it once was; nothing could be as it once had been.

Bottoms of his tennis shoes skidding against the pavement of the sidewalk, Hutch's eyes remained locked on the Blaines' front yard. Blaine's wife, Margaret, was crouched in front of the brick flowerbeds lining the exterior of their home. More often than not she could be found out there, sitting on her knees, endlessly working on her beloved flowers. Head down, her attention was focused on the task before her, as her hands, protected by pink floral gloves, pulled weed after weed from the seemingly pristine garden plots. Absently, Hutch wondered where she finding all the weeds. Everything in her bed was flawlessly placed; the plot was full of tall, vibrant, healthy flowers. Bursting with superficial beauty, the area looked perfect from afar. It was like anything in life, he supposed; everything came down to perspective and point-of-view.

There were people who thought John and Margaret Blaine where the perfect couple, remaining happily together in a seemingly stable, loving relationship for nearly thirty years. But there were cracks on their superficial surface, tiny crevices that hid all the ignominious details of their lives from a casual observer. Hutch knew Starsky was one of those dirty details and he knew that Margaret knew it, too. Her husband's infidelities were what led to the beauty of her garden. She focused her time and energy on plants because it was the only thing she could do—the only thing she felt as though she could control or had the power to fix—when faced with the painful faults of the man she promised to love forever.

Shoving his hands deep into his jeans pockets, he forced his gaze on the pavement before his feet and his focus away from John and Margaret Blaine. Nothing good would come from dwelling on the past or the future and all the difficulties their now exposed secrets promised to bring.

TBC


	60. Chapter Sixty

Standing behind the long wooden bar at The Pits, Huggy was on the phone when Hutch arrived.

Back turned and thoroughly engrossed in his conversation, he didn't acknowledge him at first. It wasn't until Hutch leaned over the bar-top, flattened his palms against the smooth surface and began tapping his index fingers that Huggy finally turned around.

"Uh…I gotta go," Huggy whispered surreptitiously into the phone.

"Hey, Huggy," Hutch said. He watched the lanky man cringe, swiping his thumb over his smartphone screen before abruptly shoving the item into his jeans pocket.

"Hey man," Huggy said, his voice slightly despondent. "How's it goin'?"

"Oh, fine. How are things with you?"

" _Great_ … Just great."

Huggy was far from great—something Hutch didn't have to recall his tall friend's secrets to realize. Though, the knowledge Fate had allowed him to be privy to did help him theorize about the nature of the problem he was trying to shrug off. If Huggy would have pursued a career in law enforcement then he would have been referred to as _a cop on the take_. It wasn't a good thing to be but it would have been drastically better, perpetually safer than what Huggy had become.

"You in trouble?" Hutch asked.

"Me?" Huggy forced a laugh. "You got to be kidding."

"Just making sure. You know, if you find yourself too deep in with the wrong kind of people you can always ask for help. You know that, right? I'm not a cop anymore but Starsky is always there if you need him."

"Man, now you really are joking. Are you listening to yourself? _The wrong kind of people_."

"I'm just putting it out there."

"Well, take it back," Huggy said, his voice a little too indignant. Extending his arms, he indicated at the surrounding room. "Man, I am a successful entrepreneur, an efficacious business owner, do I look like the type who would be consorting with people I shouldn't be?"

"Not really."

Huggy didn't, but Hutch knew the truth. He was efficacious—Hutch would give him that— and he was good friend. But everyone made mistakes, and Huggy had made his early on. He had grown up rough; bouncing in and out of the wrong parts of the city, he had taken momentous steps to end up where he was. Determined to become successful, he had accepted and provided help to all sorts of dubious characters, something, that at the time, Huggy had believed would be temporary. He would give them what they wanted and he would get money to fund his dream in return. What he didn't know was that some bad decisions led to others; there were just some mistakes you could never take back; and often it was impossible to get out from under the thing holding you down.

"I'm just saying, Hug," Hutch continued. "Whether you're in trouble or not. You're not alone. You're never alone."

"Whatever man." Shrugging, Huggy nodded at the beer taps on the end of the bar. "What are you drinking today?"

"Nothing. Starsky'll be dropping by soon. Can you send him upstairs?"

"You come in with the sole purpose of hanging out in the sun on my rooftop deck, but you don't order anything. Some people would call that loitering."

"But you never would." Hutch grinned. "Now would you, Hug?"

Xx

Despite the beauty of the afternoon, the deck was empty.

Hutch walked around the bar height patio sets in laps, running his fingertip nervously over the top of the chairs, before finally settling into the set he and Starsky normally occupied. He looked at his wristwatch and sighed. He had been early but Starsky was late; it was becoming a reoccurring problem in recent days, not something to worry about, yet. As Hutch had told Al, Starsky's career made everything unpredictable. It was detail of his life—their lives together—that Hutch wasn't necessarily comfortable with but was striving to be. He had to be. After all, Chief Ryan allowing Starsky to return to work was nothing short of a miracle. It was an opportunity in the truest form, not something to be disparaged or second guessed.

Starsky was sick—or he had been. His mother was a diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic; it was a hereditary illness that had remained dormant in Starsky for years. After a series of traumatic experiences it had made itself known, first presenting after Simon Marcus's death as quiet whispers in his head and over time the illness had intensified and grown. Though Hutch would have liked to believe he had helped the situation, easing Starsky's sickness rather than enhancing it, he knew the truth: Often threatening and confusing, his presence had been a hindrance. Attached to Fate's darkness, he had added to Starsky's mental chaos rather than lessened it. He and Fate had both exploited Starsky's deepest fear.

Yet, after it all, Starsky had bounced back. He had miraculously remained Starsky—or at least he was now. Reclaiming his Special Detail position next to Whitley and under Captain Dobey, he was the mirror image of who he had once been. Ditching the blue uniforms he had been forced to wear during his brief stint under John Blaine's supervision, he dressed in plain clothes, unassuming t-shirts and worn jeans. With a sparkle in his eye and a spring in his sneaker covered step, he negotiated each and every day displaying steadfast strength and a familiar happy-go-lucky enthusiasm that had gone missing in recent years. And for that Hutch was grateful. He didn't know how he could have returned to his life had Starsky been as depressed, confused, or angry as he had been before; his guilt would have swallowed him whole—something that, despite everything that had happened, still seemed likely on more days than not.

If Starsky was still struggling with the voices in his head, if he was obtaining medical intervention—with or without his superior's knowledge—then Hutch wasn't aware of it. His husband's struggle with the illness had become another detail lost amongst the uproar of the events leading to Hutch's coma. It had become yet another thing that, believing Hutch didn't recall the past, Starsky refused to disclose.

Planting one foot on the horizontal stretcher running the distance between the chair legs, Hutch leaned back and groaned. He shouldn't be thinking of things like this but sitting on the secluded deck in the solitary sunshine it was a hard thing to avoid. He wanted so badly for Starsky to finally show. For his husband's smile to put him at ease as ascended the stairs, his form slowly coming more and more into view with each step he took. He wanted Starsky to appear, rescuing him from his thoughts, from the past, from the day, and all the terrible things he didn't want to think about.

And then he did.

"Heya babe," Starsky said cheerfully. He kissed Hutch's cheek before sliding into a chair on the opposite side of the table. "Sorry, I'm late."

"I just got here, so you're not late."

"Yeah? Good." Starsky reached for Hutch's hand and ran his fingers over the faded message he had written hours earlier. "Good to see this still works."

"You're writing your letters larger, hard to ignore a message of that magnitude."

"You wouldn't ignore it anyway."

"Of course not."

"Well," Starsky sighed, his smile faltering. "Not to apologize twice in a row but I can't stay long. Whitley's in the car, trying to get a hold of snitch to verify an anonymous tip."

"What kind of tip? Hot or not?"

"You know I can't say." Starsky's face contorted apologetically. "I can't disclose case details. I wish I could, babe, but I really can't."

"I know," Hutch said, forcing an acceptance he didn't feel. There was a time when it felt like they could talk about anything and now it was as if they discussed nothing at all.

"I have something for you." Pulling a folded piece of paper from his back pocket, Starsky slid it across the table. "Your messages," he said. "You're a popular guy today." Brows furrowing, he watched Hutch skim the short list. "There's another one I didn't put on there."

"From who?"

"Well…" Starsky hesitated. "Katie called looking for you more than once."

Frowning, Hutch didn't recognize the name. "Katie?"

"Your sister."

"You spoke to my sister?" Hutch asked harshly. He wasn't sure if he should be angry or afraid. "What did the two of you talk about?"

"Nothing. She wants to talk to you. You need to call her."

"I'm not going to do that."

"Why not?"

"I don't want to."

"I wish you would," Starsky countered. "She's freaking out. She won't tell me why, of course, but she called me six times over the last two days. She's dying to talk to you; she said it was important."

"Of course she did," Hutch grumbled, his stomach churning. His twin sister wasn't the only one who was entitled to lose her composure. "What else did she say?"

He had tried not to concern himself with it; he had done his best to ignore the importance of the year. He had struggled to pretend that he wasn't aware of the upcoming event or how an impending decision made by a panel of people could adversely impact his life. Though it had been a vastly different situation—a quick pronouncement made by Captain Dobey and Chief Ryan—the last time he had been privy to a decision of this degree he had lost his career, and he couldn't help wondering what this verdict would strip him of.

"She didn't say anything," Starsky said calmly. "I already told you that. Whatever she wants to talk about, she's only going to discuss it with you. But if you're so bothered by the idea that I could be speaking to your sister then maybe you oughta get a new cellphone and then you wouldn't have to worry about Katie calling me at all."

"I'm not worried," Hutch lied. "You can talk to my sister all you want."

"I don't want to talk to her. I want to talk to you; I want you to tell me what the problem is. Why she's freaking out and why you're nervous."

"I'm not nervous."

"You're not _not_ nervous. Your voice is stressed, your body's rigid and you keep averting your gaze. You won't hold eye contact with me for more than—"

"This is the year _he's_ eligible for parole, okay?" Hutch said tersely, quick words he should have thought about before expelling.

Starsky's wide eyes were affirming; he knew what was being alluded to.

Hutch felt sick, nauseated by the notion that he had shared much more than he ever wanted to. He didn't want to discuss the things his uncle had done to him as a child; he didn't want to explain how or why the weight of those things were affecting him as an adult. He could barely stomach the idea that Starsky knew the truth—that there was an ever-growing list of people who knew the truth. Ryan, Dobey, Lucas Huntley, and John Blaine had all become privy to his most painful of scars, his deepest darkest truths.

While captive to Fate Hutch had safeguarded all their secrets in hope that they would show him the same courtesy but without her calming influence—and with Starsky returning to work under Dobey— he had come to worry about what they knew, and how they would chose to use it if an opportunity arose. There was a time when he had trusted those who had used his past against him. There was a time when he wouldn't have believed his life had potential to become as complicated as it had.

Starsky tightened his grip on his hand and Hutch swore he could see his husband completing the math in his head. His uncle's indeterminate jail sentence guaranteed him parole eligibility every 25 years.

"That's never happened before," Starsky said. His voice was too gentle, too understanding to put Hutch at ease. "This has to be the first time since he was convicted that your uncle's been eligible for parole. Are you...?" he hesitated, seemingly searching for the right words. It was a delicate subject, one they still hadn't properly discussed.

At one time, Hutch had told Starsky he could ask him anything about his childhood, an offer that he was silently grateful his husband had never demanded he adhere to. Hutch liked to think that it was because they both knew that without Fate the offer no longer stood. Under her power he had been different. He had seemed in control when, in fact, he had had very little power over anything. Everything that had happened, all the events he had put into motion, the things he had said or done hadn't been by his own volition; he had did what he had to do calm the monster in his head. He had done whatever was required to allow Starsky to maintain his dignity; he had tried to keep him safe and whole.

Looking at Starsky, Hutch hoped his husband would return the favor. It was old wish; one that he was doubtless was a waste of time. Starsky had no interest in holding him responsible for the past; he was focused solely on the future.

"Are you planning on testifying?" Starsky asked, a ripple of anger in his words. "Are you going to tell that parole board why that _bastard_ shouldn't be allowed to be free?"

The question was as shocking as the fierce fury shining in Starsky's eyes.

"Of course not," Hutch whispered. He had no desire to do such a thing. Or did he? He wondered suddenly, taken aback by the oddness of the question. Was this a threat or an opportunity?

"You don't want to?"

"I-I'm not sure."

"I completely understand if you don't…

"I don't know."

"…I mean, that's a hell of a thing—"

"I said I don't know!" Hutch insisted. Pulling his hand away from Starsky's, he planted his elbows on the table and nervously clasped his hands.

"Okay, I get it. You don't have to know right now. When is the hearing?"

"I don't know that either."

"How are you going to make a decision if you don't know when it is? If you let time run out then you won't have a decision to make. One will be made for you and some day you might look back and not like what it is."

"When did you get so smart?" Hutch snapped. His voice was deep and gravely; a clear warning Starsky ignored.

"Do you mind if I look into it?"

"I don't control what you chose to do."

Hutch was scandalized. Of course he cared. There were police reports to be read and case photos to be viewed, all painstakingly itemizing everything he had endured as a child. He couldn't control what Starsky did, if, when, or how his husband chose to use his status as a detective to unearth the past.

Captive to Fate, he had given Starsky the dreams. He had allowed him to see the forest and the bunker and for one ill-advised moment he had allowed Starsky to see the little boy who had been lost so long ago. But that had been then and this was now. Then, he had shared the details he had because, like Simon Marcus, he had anticipated his death; and as convoluted as it was, he had wanted to give Starsky some kind of explanation, some kind of inkling that how things had ended up where not how they were supposed to be.

And now, he lived with weighted regret and appalling shame attached to the notion that he had shared too much. After Fate was torn away from him, he had _lived_ —which was something he had never intended to do.

Hutch wanted to ask how much Starsky knew, how much he remembered from the details he had been given in his dreams, and why he was determined to never bring the topic up. But he didn't because he couldn't. Starsky's fear of forcing Hutch to recall the past was as powerful as Hutch's fear of disclosing the truth. They both remembered everything but neither of them were going to admit it.

"Jesus, Hutch, I didn't mean _that_ ," Starsky said. "I would never go digging in those files without your consent. I hope you know that. I know what you want me to and that's enough; I don't need any more than that. I just meant, do you care if I confirm the scheduled hearing date?"

"Hey," Hutch said obstinately. "Chose your own adventure, pal. You want to know, then feel free to use your professional resources to find out."

"Don't you want to know?"

"I'd rather you drop it."

"Me? You're the one who brought it up."

"And now I'm telling you to _let it go._ "

"Look," Starsky said. "I'm just trying to support you, okay? I only want to know the date, that's it. That way I can plan my life around what you need me to do. I'm with you on this, Hutch; I am right by your side through this. If you don't want to testify, fine, but I want to make sure I can be there if you do."

"That's impossible."

"Why?"

"Because you have a job. You have placed to be and people to interrogate. Taking vacation time this early isn't going to fly; you just went back."

"Then I'll quit."

"You love that job."

"Yeah, well, I love you more. Whatever you decide to do, babe. I am _with_ you. There is no way I'm letting you face your asshole uncle alone."

"Who said anything about talking to him?" Hutch scoffed. "Testifying at hearing is a lot different than visiting someone in prison, _Detective_ Starsky."

They stared at each other stubbornly before Starsky finally sighed and looked away. Setting his attention on the stairwell leading downstairs, his shoulders sank as he watched Whitley come into view. Pausing at the top of the stairs, the younger man grinned and held his arm high, curling his hand into a thumbs up motion.

"Ah, shit," Starsky whispered, acknowledging his partner with a nod across the rooftop. "Fucking Rolly actually came through." He looked at Hutch regretfully. "I got to go."

"That was quick."

Hutch couldn't contend with his bitterness. There was a time when he would have been the one making the phone call to their favored snitch, a man who called himself Fat Rolly and had a penchant for selling out his so-called-friends on the west side. Starsky and Whitley's partnership was a successful one—Starsky trusting Whitley enough to call Rolly was proof of that. But there were other things that had hinted at their cohesiveness over the past few months.

Their personalities meshed well and their respective strengths negated their differing weaknesses. They complimented each other, one seamlessly picking up the slack the other left behind. It was a good thing.—Hutch was constantly reminding himself of that. A _damn good_ thing. If Starsky had to be partnered with someone else, if he _had_ to be protecting the city with a badge and a gun, then at least he had a partner he could trust. That _they_ should trust—something that most days was still a struggle for Hutch, because he knew people's secrets, their deepest darkest deeds, and with all the agonizing things he knew about the people surrounding him, it was what he knew about Whitley that bothered him the most.

Young, honest, and solid, Whitley didn't have anything to hide. Raised by loving parents, he had a good childhood. He had the direction, love, and guidance he needed to succeed. He knew who he was and where he had come from, and better yet he knew where he was going. Hutch couldn't help but hate him—just a little—for that.

"Hey," Starsky said, softly demanding his husband's attention, as he smiled knowingly. "He's not you. You know that. Baby, he'll never be you."

Starsky always had been perceptive. As usual, his intuition was right on point. He was gracefully dismissing Hutch's greatest fear, assuring him with quiet furtive statements that would allow him to maintain his pride. It was an opportunity to ease his apprehension and calm his irrational detestation of Starsky and Whitley's partnership. But Hutch couldn't take it; his stubbornness prevailed. He was tired of being reminded of the things he should already know and being so carefully addressed.

"You never made a habit of calling me baby before don't you dare start now," he growled.

"Okay."

Starsky was nonplussed by the false accusation; frowning, Hutch shook his head. They both knew the endearment had been used and heavily favored over the years.

"What are you doing for the rest of the afternoon?" Starsky asked.

Hutch shrugged. "I haven't made any definite plans."

"Are you going to call your sister back?"

"Hell, no." Plans or no plans, speaking to his sister was never a part of Hutch's agenda. Though he couldn't avoid speaking to her forever, not having a cellphone had prolonged the inevitable for at least one more day.

"Are you going to go home?"

"Nope." Hutch ground his jaw. "I don't have a home to go to."

"Oh, knock it off, will you?" Starsky whispered, uttering the exasperated request under his breath. "You know what I meant. Are you headed to Rosie and Al's or somewhere else?"

Opening his mouth to respond, Hutch closed it instead. He was being difficult for the sake of being difficult. He had awoken in a strange mood which he had carried into the afternoon. News of his sister's repeated phone calls and the disclosure of his uncle's impending hearing had only exacerbated the situation. He was bad-tempered and tired, but it wasn't until this moment that he realized how exhausted Starsky was. Working special detail too early mornings had a way of transforming into too late nights and lately Starsky had endured so many of both. Yet he was still able to remain calm and levelheaded throughout the duration of their trying discussion.

"I don't have any big plans," Hutch offered. "Al took Lucky to the lot, so I might swing over there." Reaching for Starsky's hand, he laced their fingers together.

"That's not a bad idea. Be careful, though; Uncle Al might put you to work."

"Not likely. He knows I'm not allowed to do anything strenuous."

" _Washing cars is not necessarily strenuous._ " Starsky smiled, his tone deepening as he imitated his uncle's favored justification for the chore, " _A hose isn't heavy and neither is soap._ It's his way of helping, babe. I learned that a long time ago. When bad things happen to the people he loves, he likes to keep them close and watch over them for a while."

"When do you think you'll be home? Are you in for another long night?"

"God, I hope not, but that all depends on Rolly and you know how that shit goes."

"Yeah," Hutch laughed. "I'll be seeing you in about three days."

"Starsky!" Whitley interjected. "We gotta hit it, partner."

"Kiss for the road?" Starsky asked as he stood.

"You know it."

"Better make it count." Leaning over, Starsky grasped the back of Hutch's neck and grinned. "In case I don't see you for those three days."

Following orders, Hutch didn't remove his lips from Starsky's until Whitley jokingly threatened to cite them both for lewd behavior.

Xx

Leaving The Pits, Hutch drove around the city; he didn't have anything better to do. He tried not to think about his uncle, his sister or the life, that decades later, he was still trying to distance himself from. But he couldn't contend with his growing apprehension, anger or fear. Groaning disgustedly, he finally pulled into the secluded parking lot of an unassuming, decrepit gas station on the desolated outskirts of Bay City.

He told himself that he hadn't intended to end up here that he had arbitrarily been making each fateful turn as it came, traveling disinterestedly though one winding street after another.

At the edge of the lot, planted on an odd strip of sidewalk which haphazardly separated the crumbling cement parking lot from a gritty dirt road, a blue and silver phone booth stood tall. Neighboring the boarded-up gas station, it was the only surviving phone booth for miles. The glass lining its exterior had cracked and clouded with age and the interior was covered in rust. It was miracle the phone inside was still in working order, but it was—something he was aware of because he had used it before. And like all the days that come before this one, he knew that today his decision to come to the gas station had neither been involuntary nor a coincidence. He had wanted to end up here; he had come before and he would return again.

Digging through the console between the leather front seats of his oversized, black pickup truck, he gathered a roll of quarters and a pack of cigarettes. Half empty, the packaging was wrinkled, bulging on one side from the outline of the black lighter he had carefully shoved inside for safe keeping. It was a dirty habit; a disgusting form of stress relief he hadn't reached for since high school. Even then, he hadn't been addicted—he had _never_ been addicted to the long, slender, nicotine cylinders — smoking them had only been a distraction. In an odd way, engaging in the prohibited behavior was normalizing; it had equalized him among his peers during turbulent periods of adolescence when all he wanted was to feel the same as everyone else. He never would be, of course; he had known that then just as he did now. Too much had happened in his life to hope for such a thing.

The alarm emitted a single high-pitched squeal as he locked the truck's doors, pressing his fingertip a little too hard on the soft button of the key fob in his front pocket. It was an irrelevant action, as nobody else was around, but it wasn't purposeless. Locking the vehicle gave him peace of mind, it made him feel as though he could control something—even if it was something as small as protecting the despised truck in an abandoned parking lot.

He should want someone to break in into it or steal it, he thought absently. He hated the truck for what it represented. Its very presence seemed to substantiate and highlight all the mistakes he never should have made. The truck was garish—despite the cleanliness of its exterior. He didn't like driving it; he hated to claim it as his own. But the alternative wasn't nearly as appealing as stifling his ill-feelings and cruising though the city streets in the repulsive vehicle.

Safely parked in Al and Rosie's driveway, obscured with a gray weatherproof cover, was Starsky's beloved Camaro. Returning to work, taking his place next to Whitley in an unmarked department-assigned sedan, Starsky had deliberately left the Camaro behind, citing that he no longer wanted to leave it alone and unattended in Metro's parking garage for hours at a time.

" _I already almost lost it once, babe,_ " he had said. " _I feel better knowing that it's safe. You're welcome to it, though. You can drive it whenever you want. You know that."_

And Hutch did. With the exception of Uncle Al, he was the only other person Starsky had ever trusted to drive the vintage car. But being aware of the standing offer wasn't enough to make him take his husband up on it. Hutch had no interest being responsible for the safety of something Starsky held so dear. What if he crashed it? What if he parked it too close to something or someone and scratched or dented the cherry paint-job? Though both worries seemed irrelevant and contrived, it wasn't enough to implore Hutch to trust himself to drive the car. It hadn't always been this way, before Simon Marcus and Fate, he wouldn't have thought twice about sliding into the Camaro's driver seat, and now it had become yet another thing, on an already extensive list, that he no longer trusted himself to do.

His sudden distaste for his own vehicle was common knowledge amongst Starsky's close-knit family. Hutch had lost count of how many times Uncle Al had offered to take the truck off his hands: " _I'll give you a hell of a deal, kiddo. The family discount is even trade. Your truck for whatever you want that's sitting on my lot."_

Hutch had declined the generous offer—of course. He had purchased the truck; he had allowed himself to make a series of terrible decisions and he intended to live with the consequences.

The phone booth's door moaned and groaned as he pulled on it, haphazardly folding it into its accordion hinges. Placing the roll of quarters on top of the mounted black phone box, he removed a cigarette from the pack, put it in his mouth, lit it, and inhaled deeply. Expanding and burning, his lungs protested the foreign smoke, but he forced himself to hold on to it, only expelling a puff of air when he finally felt a nicotine buzz. He took another deep drag, then another, and another. Then, holding the cigarette between his lips, he shoved the lighter into the pack, placing it on the top of the phone box as he reached for receiver, fed a quarter into the slot, and dialed.

The line rang incessantly for a moment. Elongated, grinding chimes which echoed loudly in his ears in an overbearing manner as he was overcome by self-doubt. Why was he here? Why had he come? Why was he deliberately engaging himself with someone he had long promised—sworn—he would never speak to again?

He shouldn't be here, smoking cigarettes and inviting more trouble into his life. If Starsky knew he were smoking he'd be furious; if he knew he was traipsing around the outskirts of the city he'd be disappointed. Hutch didn't know which was worse: angering his husband or disappointing him. He never aimed to do either but somehow his good intensions always seemed to get lost.

He didn't want to talk to _her_ , so why was he bothering to call?

He flinched when the call was abruptly answered.

"Hello," a woman said, her voice rich with age and deep with impatient skepticism.

Heart pounding, Hutch took another drag from his cigarette. There where so many things he wanted to say—furious, cruel, terrible things— but his mind was blank; he couldn't form any words. His seething pain had abandoned him when he needed it the most.

"I don't have all day," the woman continued. "Either say something or hang up and allow me to continue on with the afternoon without having to listen to the sound of your heinous breath."

The chastising words awakened something deep inside of Hutch; she always had been adept at making him feel like a derelict, cutting him down with only a few words. Closing his eyes, he battled a brutal waive of incompetence and shame before summoning the courage to utter the bitter word lingering on the tip of his tongue.

"Mother."

" _Cameron_ ," Emily Hutchinson scoffed scornfully. "It is about time you called."

Xx

It was another long night.

Lying in bed, Hutch stared aimlessly at the ceiling of the dark bedroom as he wondered if Starsky would ever come home. Despite hopes otherwise, Rolly had held out—there was no other explanation for Starsky's continued absence. Hutch longed to be beside his husband—wherever he was—for what felt like the millionth time. He missed him, the way they had been together before, the way they would never be again, working side-by-side as a partnered team under Captain Dobey, speeding down streets, chasing leads, and " _getting the bad guys_ " as Starsky had often referred to it, grinning as he offered the simplistic explanation after one-too-many beers.

Hutch tossed and turned. He missed that life. He couldn't have it back, he knew that, but it didn't ease his grief or stop him from wishing. The knowledge didn't do a lot things. It didn't change the past or predict the future, and it didn't negate the afternoon.

Hours passed before Starsky finally arrived. Carefully opening the bedroom door, he quietly pet Lucky who rose to greet him. "Shhhh," he whispered as the Dalmatian whined excitedly. "You're going to wake up Hutch."

"I'm not a sleep," Hutch grumbled.

"Ah, shit, did I wake you?"

"No. I never fell asleep,"

Turning on the bedside lamp, Starsky assessed Hutch, his face weighted with exhaustion. "That's no good. How does your chest feel? Are your muscles keeping you awake?"

Hutch shook his head.

"What is it then?" Starsky asked.

"Just..." Hutch paused, solemnly watching as Lucky circled the area near the end of the bed before plopping his body down with a sigh. "Just thoughts."

"Shit." Sliding his tennis shoes off, Starsky kicked them to the far end of the room. "That's the worst kind of can't sleep." Pulling his t-shirt over his head, he tossed it on top of the shoes, and reached for the button of his jeans." Want to talk about it?"

"Not particularly. How was the rest of your day?"

Throwing his discarded jeans toward the rest of the clothes pile, Starsky climbed beneath the covers and exhaled heartily, rubbing his hands tiredly over his face and through his hair. "I don't really want to talk about that either."

"Rolly give you a hard time?"

"Rolly," Starsky groaned. "We didn't even _get_ to Rolly."

"What happened?"

"Man, what didn't happen today? There was a pile-up on the 405, it forever to get to the bar where Rolly spends most of his time. Only when we got there to speak to him, we ended up walking into something nasty. I swear to you, not a second after we walked in, some dude starting threating another guy with a broken beer bottle because he was sitting on his barstool. Can you believe that?"

"Rough neighborhood."

"Rolly split because of all the commotion, and Whitley took a brutal left-hook, knocked him clean out. I'm pretty sure his nose is broken but he wouldn't let me take him to ER. He just packed it with ice and swore he'd be okay. He going to regret that once the swelling goes down and he ends up with fucked up nose."

"His girlfriend is gonna love that."

"Fiancé now."

"Oh, shit," Hutch chuckled.

"Oh, come on." Shifting closer, Starsky rested his head on Hutch's shoulder, and laughed. "Amber isn't _that_ terrible."

"She's not that great either."

Though Hutch had only met Amber once, the brief visit had been enough to solidify his opinion. As Starsky had said, she wasn't terrible, but she wasn't the kind of person Hutch would choose to spend a great deal of time around. Overly concerned with appearances, fashion, and social status Amber was a lot like Vanessa had been—something he didn't want to think about.

"Really," Starsky assured. "She's not that bad once you get to know her. She's a little off-putting at first, but she has a good heart."

"How would you know? Have you been going out of your way to spend time with her?"

"She meets up with Whitley and me for lunch sometimes, or dinner if it's a late night and we can find the time."

Feeling a surge of jealousy, Hutch stiffened. Why was she allowed to do that? What right did annoying Amber have to eat more meals with Starsky than even he was able to as of late? He should have been there. It should be he and Starsky eating quick lunches and late dinners, spending long endless nights together, working side-by-side to make a break in an investigation. Not Whitley—and certainly not Amber.

"It's not a big deal, Hutch," Starsky soothed. "Most of the time I leave them alone anyway."

"It isn't a big deal," Hutch agreed. It was massive problem; one that highlighted and intensified an issue he was intent on ignoring. _You_ _are responsible for what happens now._ Hutch closed his eyes, his father's words ringing in the back of his mind and intermixing with his own. _The danger is not having the courage to distance yourself from the ones who hurt you. You have to decide who you are, if the person you have allowed yourself to become is who you want to be._

"You know," Starsky said, expelling the exhausted words as he yawned. "If you weren't so against having a cellphone then this wouldn't be a problem. I would have a way of telling you that I could meet you for lunch or dinner on the fly. You could meet up with us just as often as Amber does."

"It's not a problem."

"I know it's not."

"If I agree to get new cellphone then will you agree to start looking for a new house?" Hutch asked. The question was irrelevant; he knew what Starsky's answer would be, but he posed with the hope that Starsky could somehow understand.

"The timing isn't right for that yet, Hutch," Starsky sighed. "Jesus, it's only been six months since you woke up."

"Exactly."

"There's no reason to rush things. We have all the time in the world to find a place and I think we should take it. Besides, I feel better knowing that you're around family when I'm at work. I don't like the idea of you spending all your time alone."

 _And unsupervised_ , Hutch wanted to add. Instead, he kept quiet and focused on the comforting rhythm of Starsky's drowsy breath. His husband was right but he was wrong too. Time was a finite thing; people always liked to believe they had more than they did.

TBC

Author Note: THANK YOU to everyone for continuing to follow and comment on this story. You are all fantastic; I am SO appreciative of every single one of you!

This story has become so embedded into my heart; after finishing part two I don't think I ever really had choice other than to continue it, though, at the time, I thought I did. I thought I could leave it, that the wide-open part two epilogue would be enough. As usual, I was completely wrong because, in the end, I want to know how the guys recovered. I need to know what happened after Hutch woke up and Fate was gone. So thank you for being so kind and receptive to my decision to continue this journey; thank you for being willing to follow me as I take step-after-step and find my way through a story I care so much about. 3


	61. Chapter Sixty-One

It didn't take Hutch long to sort through the short list of messages Starsky had given him the afternoon before. The majority of the calls—including the bid for contact from his twin sister—he ignored; there were a couple he heeded— an appointment reminder for an upcoming visit with his physician, a request from a YMCA coordinator asking him to register as a coach for the upcoming Little League season—and one call he promptly returned, as his long-time mentor and close friend, Lucas Huntley, was a man he was determined to never ignore again.

It was early for a drink, but that didn't stop Hutch or Huntley when they arrived at the tiny hole-in-the-wall bar off of Third Street. Though the surroundings were lugubrious, the dismal establishment had become their normal place, accommodating them at least once a week while they met for a beer—or two, depending on the topic of conversation. This particular day and conversation was three beer visit—not that Hutch was counting; he no reason to do such a thing.

The alcohol was drunk swiftly, sliding down his throat smoothly in intervals as the information about his uncle's impending parole hearing spilled from his mouth. When he was done, he planted his elbows heavily on the table, swiping his fingertips up and down the side of his condensation covered beer glass, and awaited the elder man's response.

"That's rough," Huntley sighed heartily, assessing Hutch with guarded eyes. "What are you gonna do, pal?"

"I don't know." Hutch shrugged, feigning disinterest, though they both knew his response was contrived. After all, he was the one who had brought up his uncle's impending hearing. But the admission hadn't felt how he expected it to. Instead of being comforted by Huntley knowing the truth, he felt timorous, rattled by the lines of worry etched on elder man's face. Huntley had always seemed so wise, so sure of anything and everything; it was unsettling to see hint of hesitation—or sympathetic fear.

"That's okay," Huntley said smoothly. "You don't have to know right now."

Reaching for his half-empty beer glass, Hutch took a drink and absently considered his mentor's reply. Curiously, it was the same thing Starsky had said when presented with his fierce apprehension regarding the impending hearing.

"Did you tell your other half about the possibility of your uncle being paroled?" Huntley asked.

Nodding, Hutch took another drink.

"And?" Huntley prompted.

"And what?"

"What did Starsky say? Does he think you should testify?"

"He said that he supports me either way."

"Good." Huntley's lips curled into a knowing smile. "What else did he say?"

"What do you mean _what else did he say_?"

"I mean, did he say have a nice trip when you go? Or did he volunteer to accompany you during what promises to be a particularity dramatic visit?"

"Accompany me?" Hutch was indignant. What was he a child? Someone to be supervised and looked after?

"You know, for moral support."

Slamming his beer glass down, Hutch leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and frowned.

"Don't get pissy with me," Huntley warned. "I'm just asking because I care. You and I both know what happened the last time you ventured to the Midwest alone. It wasn't a good visit and it didn't end well..."

"I went back for my father's _funeral_. When someone dies it tends not to be an overly _fun_ time."

"...I'm just saying that if you decide to testify against your uncle then you're not doing it alone. If Starsky can't go with you then I will."

"I haven't decided if I'm doing it or not," Hutch said stubbornly. He would never allow Huntley or even Starsky to accompany him to the Midwest. Nothing good would come from it if he did. The bitterness of his blood-relatives needed to be kept as far away from the seeming unconditional love of the people he had collected, the family he had created in adulthood. He would do whatever was necessary to keep the trauma of the past from interfering with the future.

"You say you won't now, but you will. You have to."

"I don't _have_ to do _anything_. That's the point."

"I know it's a scary proposition, but this is a chance for closure, pal. You might not get another one." Face contorting hesitantly, Huntley paused. "Have you thought about the alternative?" he asked softly. "What if you don't testify? What if you don't show up and the panel interprets your absence as acceptance and they parole him? What then?"

"That's not going to happen. They're not going to let him go."

"People are released from prison all the time, we both know that. And while what your uncle did was horrible, deprived and dirty, he didn't kill you. He didn't kill _anyone_. He's done twenty-five years; if he kept his nose clean they could let him walk for good behavior."

"The chance of that is so small that—"

"But it's there. How would you feel if he was free man? What would you do then?"

Hutch didn't know. It seemed his feelings on the matter were destined to remain much less clear than the people around him. "My mother would like that," he grumbled. "In fact, she's lobbying for it."

"What?"

"She wants me to testify on his behalf."

Month hanging agape, Huntley stared dumbly.

"She thinks," Hutch continued, "that enough time has passed and he's suffered enough. Although, she didn't think he deserved to go to prison in the first place."

"Oh, you have got to be shitting me," Huntley groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose in a strained manner. "When did you talk to your _mom_? I thought that after what she said to you at your father's funeral that the two of you were on the permanent outs."

Pursing his lips, Hutch shrugged. His mother hadn't just urged him to testify on his uncle's behalf; she had uttered a plethora of things he wished he could forget. She had called him a liar and failure. She had accused him of running away and then insisted he return to the Midwest to correct his mistake.

 _"You're picking at your scars, aren't you_?" she had accused, her bitter voice crackling through the phone line. " _Of course you are. That is exactly why you will never amount to anything. You neither know how to apologize nor take responsibility for your mistakes. You had a role in what happened, it would serve you well to remember that."_

The hurtful words had lingered, but Hutch wasn't going to relay the heart-wrenching details of their earlier conversation. He had already said too much and was determined not to disclose anymore. "How's Starsky doing?" he asked.

Huntley was exasperated. "You want to know how Starsky's doing?"

"Yeah."

Huntley rolled his eyes but complied. "I don't see him much these days; he and Whitley are in-and-out of Metro. They're busy; the way the two of you used to be. He's lookin' a lot better now that he's out of uniform, I'll tell you that. He's happier; though that might be due to the fact that he's off of Blaine's roster." Reaching for his beer, he scoffed. "Talk about on the outs, Starsky won't even stand in the same hallway as John Blaine. How has it been having to live across the street from that bastard?"

"Fine," Hutch lied. Then thinking of Margret Blaine and her garden, he added, "He's really not home much. I think I've only seen him a couple times since Starsky and I moved in. He leaves early, comes home late, if at all."

"Cop's life, you spend more time out on the street than under the roof of your own home. But I don't have to tell you about that. You were cop for seven years; you know all about the shit that comes with the job title," Huntley mused. "You really are okay with living with Starsky's Aunt and Uncle, right? Right across the street Blaine and his wife?"

Hutch didn't answer, but he didn't need to. Huntley had loved and protected him for years; he knew him better than most. And Hutch was sure the elder man already knew the answer he was trying so hard not to voice: _I'm not okay with anything, but I'm trying my best to accept what I can't change. I'm trying to summon the courage to let go of the past and build something new._

"Of course you are," Huntley continued. "You have to be."

"Is Starsky really doing okay?" Hutch asked, desperate to guide their conversation away from such an unpalatable topic. "Is he holding his own now that he's back on Dobey's team?"

"For the record, Starsky always holds his own. He's a damn good cop, always has been, always will be. He's fine; you're the one I'm worried about."

"Don't be," Hutch deflected, forcing a smile. "I'm doing just fine." It wasn't convincing—in comparison to other lies he had told—but he was relieved when Huntley graciously accepted his assurance.

"You and Starsky seem to be getting along better," Huntley said. "That's good to see. Things were pretty rocky between you guys for a while."

"We're good. Getting better every day."

"What was causing all the commotion? Was it just grief over everything? The loss of your dad and job and what Simon Marcus did to Starsky or something more?"

Though Hutch knew Huntley thought the question was rhetorical—a carefully devised efficient, face-saving summation of traumatic events—it was impossible to answer truthfully. _I invited a monster into our lives_ , he thought sadly. _Starsky lost his mind and I lost everything else._

"Oh, you know, just differences," he said. "We've always argued, fought over stupid shit, occasionally battled for the upper-hand. It's who we are, who we've always been."

Huntley chucked. "That's true. I suppose adding wedding rings to the situation only intensified all the hubbub."

Huntley looked at the thick, gold wedding band encircling his finger, prompting Hutch to consider his own. Eyes setting on the shiny, silver band, he ran the tip of his index finger over it; its presence was still as remarkable, as momentous as the day Starsky had placed it there—not the first time, of course, but the second. The first time had been coerced and wrong; Hutch had had an agenda and captive to nervousness and confusion Starsky hadn't wanted to get married at all. But the second time had been a miracle. A moment of intense, pure happiness during particularly painful day.

 _"We're married, you know,"_ Starsky had said firmly. His voice had an edge but his furrowed brows betrayed the worry he was struggling to conceal.

Too many hours removed from his next administration of pain medication, Hutch had awoken suddenly; gasping for air and doing his best not to writhe in pain in the small hospital bed, the night had passed too slowly. Starsky arrived at sunrise and together they had begun counting down first the hours, then minutes, and eventually seconds until Hutch would be allowed something to ease his intense pain. Reaching the last hour, he had given up counting and into the penetrating throbbing—burning—sensation radiating off his chest. But desperate to distract him, Starsky wouldn't give up.

 _"We're married,"_ Starsky repeated. " _That means I do get some authority and a little bit of leeway to tell you what to do. Forty-one minutes, babe, tell me how many seconds that is."_

 _"I can't,"_ Hutch had whispered, his voice wavering and eyes brimming with unshed tears.

 _"You can. You're always going on about how smart you are. Don't act like you can't do the math in your head."_

 _"That's not funny."_

 _"I'm not trying to be funny. I'm trying to distract you so that you can forget how terrible you feel."_

 _"You're doing a shit job."_

 _"Forty minutes now."_ Starsky grasped his hand. _"Come on, Hutch. That's an easy one. Four times six, add a couple zeros,"_ he prompted.

Exhaling thickly, Hutch closed his eyes. Though it was easy, the answer felt far away, distorted by agony. There was a fire in his chest; a stinging, oppressive throb punctuated his shallow breaths. He had never felt pain like this; it was as though he was being burned alive and having his chest cavity slowly torn apart at the same time.

 _"We're at thirty-nine minutes,"_ Starsky said. _"Now, that one's a little bit harder—"_

 _"Two thousand... three hundred... and forty,"_ Hutch gasped.

Starsky grinned. _"How'd you come up with that so fast?"_

 _"Take the easy one…"_ Hutch paused, inhaling a shaky breath.

 _"Forty,"_ Starsky said _. "And?"_

 _"And...subtract sixty."_

 _"That's good. So good, in fact, that I think you deserve a prize."_

Hutch felt, rather than saw, the cold silver band Starsky slid on the index finger of his left hand. The sensation was familiar, welcome and grounding in the most innate way. A twin of Starsky's own, the band was significant; it was evidence of what bound them together and it was proof of all the things that had nearly torn them apart. Waking from a coma, it had taken Hutch days to realize the ring was missing. He hadn't anticipated Starsky to return it; he had never expected to see it again.

 _"We're married,"_ Starsky repeated, the words softer and slower than he had uttered them before. _"I promised to love you forever and whether you ever remember that day or not, I want you to know that is a promise I intend to keep. I loved you then and I love you now."_

When Starsky leaned over the bed and kissed him deeply, Hutch had to admit that the reappearance of his ring was a hell of a distraction—one that, to this day, he remained grateful for.

"Marriage isn't bad," Hutch said, looking at Huntley once more. "I like it. It's nice to know that no matter what Starsky and I belong to each other, you know. It sounds stupid but there's a lot stability that comes with a wedding ring."

"Marriage is really fucking hard," Huntley said. "Nobody ever tells you that, but it is. The hardest thing you'll ever do is stay together when it seems like everything around you is intent on tearing you apart, when it feels like you have a thousand reasons to leave and not enough to stay."

Hutch couldn't disagree; he wouldn't dare. Being privy to his secret, he knew Huntley had every reason to be cynical about marriage. Huntley's deepest secret wasn't his own; it wasn't something he knew, rather suspected about his wife.

As Huntley had alluded, a cop's life was hard, endlessly difficult for the individual entrusted with a badge and sometimes seemingly impossible for their spouse—something Hutch now had first-hand experience with. There was a lot of waiting—for something to happen, for Starsky to come home. Often in Starsky's absences it felt as though time was moving in slow motion only to speed up to a maddening pace when he was finally off the clock. Hutch looked for something to fill his spare time and, like Huntley's wife, the things he found to fill his days—and nights—weren't always good. Though on the surface her habit seemed to be more destructive than snuck cigarettes and secret phone calls, the things they both did in private promised to cause complications when eventually revealed.

"How is Doris doing?" Hutch asked. "I haven't seen her since I was in the hospital, and I haven't seen the two of you together in twice as long."

Huntley grinned. "You think I don't know what you're doing but I do."

"I'm not doing anything." Hutch smiled.

"You're done talking about you and your husband so you thought you'd swap the conversation over to me and my wife."

"Hey, you're the one who was getting all depressed about marriage. I'm just following your lead and asking how things are. You can't make an offhand comment about the difficulty of marriage and expect me not to ask."

"Sure," Huntley grumbled. "Doris is fine. Thing are... _good_."

But they weren't. Hutch knew that things between Doris and Luke hadn't been good eight months ago. He had wanted to say something then, to somehow help with the impossibility of the situation, but Fate wouldn't allow it. In hindsight, it was odd the things she had controlled, the people she had ensured Hutch remain close to and the ones she insisted he distance himself from. The people he pushed away had thought that he had had a choice, when in reality he hadn't had one at all.

"You can tell me the truth," Hutch said quietly. "You know that, right? Our friendship doesn't always have to be one-sided; you're not just my confidant but I can be yours, too."

For the slightest of moments, Huntley looked afraid, then the emotion was gone, replaced by mock skepticism and forced jubilance. "You're a riot," he said. "What, you're not a cop anymore so you decide to embark on a new career as a comedian?"

"This isn't a joke," Hutch said, wishing it was. "If you need help or someone to talk to, I'm here."

"You're funny, pal. But there's nothing to talk about," Huntley said evenly. "Doris is in Vegas. She and a couple of girlfriends decided to head over there for a long weekend, take in some sun and shows, at least that's what she told me." Pausing, he snorted cynically. "She said it like we don't have a plethora of either here. She coulda went to the beach, like a normal Californian, got tickets to tapings of her pick of TV shows but nope. None of that was good enough for my girl."

"Shit," Hutch groaned. "Really, Luke, _Vegas_?"

It was a horrible idea—he knew that, and looking at Huntley, Hutch realized he knew it, too. Sending Doris to Las Vegas was the equivalent of asking an alcoholic to manage a liquor store. Impulsive and powerful, her gambling addiction was the surreptitious secret threatening to destroy not only their marriage but their livelihood. The debt she had accrued over the years was deep— too deep to ever be fully reconciled.

"I couldn't tell her no," Huntley said. "I've never been any damn good at telling her no."

"She oughta be in therapy, Luke. Addictions like that they don't just go away. Ignoring them only makes things worse."

Huntley frowned. "Who said anything about addiction?"

"You did," Hutch lied.

"I did not."

"I'm sure you did," Hutch insisted.

"And I'm sure I _didn't_."

Stubbornly, Huntley held Hutch's gaze, and in that moment Hutch knew—not due to any supernatural advisement, but because he knew the man sitting across from him better than most people ever would—that Huntley was aware of Doris's addiction and her mounting, crippling debt. Huntley knew but his overwhelming guilt and shame were preventing him from admitting it was happening at all.

Exhaling heartily, Hutch broke eye-contact. Guilt and shame were powerful feelings, challenging to negotiate, impossible to ease or comfort if the affected person didn't want to admit their existence. He couldn't make Huntley talk about something he was determined not to admit was happening. He couldn't help anyone if they were intent on pretending their secrets didn't exist.

There was time when he had avoided his own secrets—no amount of gentle prodding or direct dialogue had ever been enough to make him admit the truth. And all he had ever wanted was to be allowed to preserve his dignity. To admit the truth in his own time and in his own way. Maybe it would have happened eventually or maybe not. But he would have had control over what was disclosed. He would have been allowed to share on his own terms. And now everyone knew everything and, without Fate, Hutch was left feeling scandalized and lost. He wouldn't do that to someone else—no matter how large or small the secret, no matter how inconsequential or formidable the consequences were for keeping the information safe.

"I'm wrong," Hutch said, looking at Huntley again. He pretended not notice how his soft words visibly put his mentor at ease. "I'm sorry. You said what you did about marriage and I interpreted it wrong. Then you said Vegas and I just assumed it was bone of contention."

"There are no bones of contention between me and my wife. She's good to me, pal. Even after all the years that I left her sitting at home, alone, while I work this crazy-ass job; she's stood by me. She's entitled to a little fun."

"Okay," Hutch agreed. He had his insecurities—and neuroses—when it came to Starsky and their marriage, but, even so, he didn't agree with Huntley's thought process. Huntley's guilt over the career which had led to all the hours his wife had been left alone didn't justify her irresponsible behavior. His absence may had led to Doris's loneliness but it didn't make him culpable for her poor choices, the fateful decisions she had made on her own.

"Okay," Huntley said, as though the reiteration of their coerced agreement reinforced its validity.

Hutch knew it didn't and wouldn't, but there was no shame in playing along. Everyone had to come to terms with the truth in their own time— in their own way. Some would admit it quickly, turning shock and pain into positive action that would lay the groundwork for eventual acceptance and change. Others would never admit to what they knew about themselves or their loved ones; they would live with the burden of all the things they thought they couldn't or didn't know how to talk about.

Watching Huntley finish his beer, Hutch wondered what type of people he and Starsky were.

Would Starsky's fear of triggering Hutch's absconding ways ever diminish enough to allow them admit what they knew and talk about what happened? And would Hutch's panic of talking about the truth—the innate terror of being abandoned after finally summoning the courage to explain the past— ever ebb to allow such a thing? And if not, then where would that leave them? What kind of life—what kind of marriage—where they destined to have?

"You let me know when that parole hearing is," Huntley said. Firm and instructing, his tone left no room for disagreement or debate. "Like I said, if Starsky can't go then I will."

"Sure," Hutch said, though he knew it was an agreement he had no intention of following through on.

Xx

The sun was dipping low in the sky by the time Hutch returned to Rosie and Al's house. Parking along the street, he groaned as his gaze set on the open garage door and the cluster of card tables assembled to accommodate a group.

It was a small certainty in an increasingly unreliable world; every Wednesday night, without fail, Al and a tight-knit group of friends congregated for an evening of pizza, beer, and poker. Though casual, it was a surreptitious gathering. The members were a select few—friends who had known each other for years— and they were careful of inviting any new blood. Family invitations were a given, of course; a few of the guys had sons who would occasionally show up and Starsky was known to sit in on a hand or two if he were off-duty.

Hutch remembered when Starsky had finally invited him to attend—he hadn't wanted to go at first. It had taken multiple invitations and a lot of convincing for Starsky to finally get him to play poker in his uncle's garage—and even then he hadn't enjoyed it. It had been years ago—they were different people back then—long before they had become lovers or boyfriends, just after they were promoted to the Special Crimes Unit under Dobey and been dubbed Zebra Three.

Their friendship had been quick, their cohesive spark—a hint of the powerful, constitutive almost impulsive ardor lingering between them— was immediate. It wasn't love at first sight, rather something else. It was as though they had both looked at one another and realized that each was the final missing piece to a puzzle neither knew they were working on. They slid into each other's so life easily, as though they had always been walking side-by-side for the duration of their lives, yet just noticed the other was there. Something bound them together—first as partners then as friends, and, as time passed, lovers and constant companions.

It wasn't love; it was something much more powerful than that.

The first night they had slept together had been mistake—they had both been adult enough to admit that. It was a desperate encounter, frantic and insistent, fueled by alcohol and frayed nerves. Finding themselves at the abrupt completion of a traumatic investigation, they had sought respite at The Pits, their faces set in grim expressions, their clothes tattered, torn and speckled with blood. Huggy had remained mute as he served them pitcher-after-pitcher, shot-after-shot, and neither of them uttered a word. They didn't have to; they both knew that what had happened, what had nearly been lost. How a day that had begun like hundreds of others had suddenly turned violent and sour. Together, their backs pressed up against each other, their respective guns aimed high, Starsky and Hutch had almost died that day, and by the end of the night it was almost as though something had decided that only together they would live.

Huggy cut them off just after two am, ushering them down the private hallway and up the secluded stairwell to the upstairs apartment. _"Sleep it off,"_ he had said, watching them hold on to each other as they staggered up the stairs. _"Don't do anything I wouldn't do."_

Eventually they heeded the former half of his direction but only after disregarding his latter advice.

Posing in Hutch's image, Fate had once tortured Starsky with the details of that night, something Hutch knew had only been possible because of the uncertainty surrounding the specifics of what actually had happened between them. She had always enjoyed playing her games, preying on people, using fragmented hints of memories in order to instill doubt and fear. In reality, Starsky didn't recall the details of that night—how it had unfolded, who had dared the first kiss or made the first move— and neither did Hutch. They had been permanently obscured, stolen by the alcohol thinning the blood racing through their veins. They both remembered the morning after, however, how they had awoken, naked and sprawled across each other, covered haphazardly with a thin sheet.

 _"Oh, shit,"_ Starsky had groaned, lifting his arms to press his palms against the sides of his head.

The groggy declaration had filled Hutch with fear. Head pounding, his tender stomach churned with more than just sourness from his raging hangover. Biting his lip, he closed his eyes, wishing—willing— his partner to keep his thoughts about their scandalous behavior to himself for fear of the disgust he was certain to express.

But never one to be predicted Starsky took him by surprise. _"Does your head hurt?"_ he asked. _"My head feels like it's going to fucking explode."_ Groaning, he stood on wobbly legs, his face paling as his sickened body struggled to adapt to his change in position. _"I think there's some aspirin in the bathroom cabinet,"_ he added, his voice a croaky whisper. _"I'll go get it."_

Hutch watched with wonder and increasing trepidation as his naked partner moved to the bathroom. He was completely inhibited, unconcerned and unaffected by the glaring evidence of what they had done. Returning to the side of the bed, he stood in front of Hutch, offering him a pair of aspirin and glass of water. Looking between the items, Hutch was overcome by the absurdity of the moment, his partner's odd comfortable contentment, and his own emerging guilt. Numbly reach for the aspirin, he tossed in his mouth, chasing it with a sip of water before handing the glass back.

Opening his mouth, he willed himself to say something—anything—to reconcile what had taken place. He wanted to feign acceptance; he wanted to wrap himself in Starsky's calm demeanor, to somehow hold on to it until it absorbed through his skin, putting his heart as ease and calming the panic threatening to overcome him.

What had they done? What had he allowed himself to do?

Shutting his mouth, he opened it again, intent not addressing what had taken place between them, but it was as though he had no control over the words that came out. _"Starsky, I'm engaged_ ," he said, his voice sounding hollow.

He hadn't meant to tell his partner like this; the fact was so new that he hadn't found an opportunity to address it. Two days prior he had asked his girlfriend, Abby, to be his wife and she had said yes. He wasn't quite sure why he had done it, but he had bought the ring and dropped to one knee. It wasn't until he was going through the motions—when Abby squealed happily, pulling him from the floor and into an excited embrace—that he began to question if his decision had been premature.

Did he want to marry Abby? Did he really love her or was she a placeholder? Someone to look beautiful on his arm while he questioned who he was, what he wanted, and who he was really supposed to be.

 _"I'm engaged,"_ Hutch repeated, barely comprehending the statement. _"And I don't know what we did last night but I'm pretty sure it was wrong."_

Taking a drink of water, Starsky shrugged indifferently. _"It doesn't bother me if it doesn't bother you."_

If Hutch was looking for an admission from his partner—a hint of regret or even anger—regarding what had taken place between them in the apartment that night then he would have been left waiting. Those words would be the only ones Starsky would ever say about it until the terrible day when Fate had decided to embed herself into his already fragmented mind, twisting and turning his memory for her own benefit.

 _"When I was walking today I remembered something,"_ Starsky had said. Standing outside of his bedroom at Rosie and Al's he swallowed dryly, looking at Hutch with fear-filled eyes.

The statement had been so strange, so surreal that Hutch had misconstrued it for something else. Something positive, something good. _"Yeah?"_ he asked. Closing the gap between them, he smiled encouragingly. _"Tell me about it."_

 _"It was the first night, when we were in the room above Huggy's. Do you remember that night?"_

 _"What made you think of that? That's an odd memory to be suddenly preoccupied with. We promised never to talk about it, remember?"_

 _"But why?"_ Starsky demanded tearfully.

 _"What do you mean why? You know. I don't have to tell you why it was mistake. This week was a mistake too."_

 _"I don't know why!"_

 _"David, you are entirely too upset about this. It's really not that big of a deal."_

 _"If it's not a big deal then why can't we talk about it?"_

 _"It was a long time ago,"_ Hutch soothed. _"It doesn't matter now. Take a deep breath, please. Calm yourself down before—"_

 _"Why won't you just tell me? You're the one who brought it up this afternoon but now it has to be some big secret?"_

 _"When this afternoon? What are you talking about?"_

 _"Don't lie to me! You know! In the apartment above Huggy's, you were there, a-and I was there. And you told me… you told me what happened because I couldn't remember… and you… you were so happy to make me remember something so bad and now… now I can't stop thinking about it. And I just need to know what part of that memory is a lie."_

 _"Sweetheart, nothing bad happened between us, not in that apartment. Not this afternoon and not years ago—"_

 _"Then why can't we talk about it!"_ Starsky demanded, gasping as Hutch struggled to pull him into a comforting embrace. _"Don't touch me! I c-can't have you t-touching me… N-not after…"_

Tears streaming down his cheeks, Starsky took a step back, then another, and another. Jumping as his back hit the hallway, he turned his head, closing his eyes in a desperate manner, and in that moment, Hutch knew that Starsky couldn't tolerating looking at him any longer. He knew that Starsky's confusion—his heart wrenching panic over the details of that first night—had once been his own.

Hutch had said he was sorry and he was—both for how Fate had chosen to engage Starsky in the apartment above The Pits that afternoon and for the drunken acts he had allowed himself to engage in years before. The truth was that their first night together did bother him. The events that had taken place that night would continue to bother him for a very long time.

Exiting his truck, Hutch quietly shut the door, then shoved his hands deep into his jeans pockets and hoped he could sneak into the house unnoticed. But it wasn't to be. Dark eyes setting on him, Lucky rushed to his side, alerting every one of his arrival.

Uncle Al smiled, extended his hand and waived him over. "Hey, kiddo," he said warmly. "You're just in time for first deal."

Xx

"Hi, honey," Aunt Rosie said. Sitting at the dining table, a stack of papers and half-empty wine glass before her, she smiled as Hutch and Lucky emerged from the connecting garage door and entered the kitchen. "I didn't realize you were out there. I thought you didn't like joining in on the poker night."

"I tried to sneak into the house," Hutch sighed, his eyes narrowing as he peered down at the Dalmatian. " _Someone_ gave me away and I got sucked in."

"It's awful hard to sneak by once Al knows you're there. How many games did you sit through?"

"Two."

"You got off easy then," Rosie laughed. "How was your day before impromptu poker?"

"Fine."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing much. Took a drive, met up with Luke for a drink."

"Not too many, I hope," Rosie said, her tone slightly scolding. "You know better than to drink and drive."

"I was fine to drive."

"You better have been."

Brows furrowing, Hutch considered the statement. It was mild for a scolding; a familiar statement said with the slightest of hint of chastising and skepticism, seemingly communicating a more direct message without forming the damaging words: _I know you screwed up this time. Don't do it again._

Though he didn't make a habit of it, Starsky had said the statement before but it wasn't until hearing it from Aunt Rosie, with the same inflection and in the same soft tone, that Hutch wondered what the statement really meant — coming from Starsky or Rosie or maybe even Al. If it was yet another statement—a warning motivated by love—traded amongst the close-knit family. Did Rosie saying it to him mean something or nothing at all? Was it evidence supporting Al's earlier claim that he had really become a part of their family? Had his and Rosie's rapport grown enough to accommodate her saying such a thing? She wasn't his aunt or mother, what right did she have to say such a thing at all? Warm, receptive and _kind_ , Rosie couldn't have been more different than any of the women who had—or had not— influenced and guided him during his formative years.

"What are you thinking about?" Rosie asked.

"Nothing."

"That didn't look like nothing. It looked like an awful lot of _something."_ Reaching for her wine glass, Rosie tilted her head thoughtfully and took a small sip. "Are you feeling okay?"

"Of course."

"You're sure."

"I'm sure."

"You would tell me if you weren't doing well, wouldn't you?" Rosie asked, her voice full of maternal concern.

"Of course."

Hutch couldn't tolerate the moment—the increasing intensity of her probing questions or her concern—and a new question emerged, tormenting him with its agonizing unpredictability: If Rosie knew the truth about him— where he had come from, what had happened to him as a child and the horrible things he had done as an adult—would she still care about him in the same way she appeared to? Or would she dismiss him? Extracting herself from his company the way so many others already had.

 _You're picking at your scars again, aren't you?_ His mother's accusation rang in his ears. _You neither know how to apologize or take responsibility for your mistakes._

And if he chose to take responsibly—if he told her the truth right now— would Rosie blame him for what happened to Starsky if she knew that it had all been his fault? Would Al? The notion was almost too much to bear. They were his family now, too—at least he wanted them to be. In the hospital, Rosie and Al had stood beside his bed, each holding one of his hands, and said so. They had said they loved him, that he was an intricate part of their family. Then why did think their love was so finite? Why did he still believe something could go terribly wrong?

Because something was always destined to go wrong when mammoth truths remained hidden. Though he wished he wasn't, Fate had allowed Hutch to become privy to Rosie and Al's secret and he was still closely guarding some of his own. The truth would come out eventually; it always had a way of emerging at the worst time. And his truth was as it had always been: He didn't belong here and he never would. Rosie and Al loved him but wasn't their nephew or son.

"David called a little while ago," Rosie said. "Had I known you were in the garage then I would have had you speak to him. He said he and Whitley are on a stake-out; he's not going to be home tonight..."

"Great."

"... but if things stay quiet then he will try to call you later."

Lucky scratched insistently at Hutch's calves, a demand for attention he couldn't ignore. He crouched and Lucky's physical enthusiasm threatened to overwhelm him. Wagging his tail, the dog's hips swung ardently as Hutch placated him with series of long strokes, moving his head to avoid the being licked on the cheeks by the Dalmatian's long tongue.

"He really missed you today," Rosie said. "Not too many people get that kind of attention from him. He always misses you when you're gone. We miss you, too. You know that, right?"

"How can you miss me?" Hutch forced a laugh. He pretended not understand but he knew the worry Rosie's words were born from, just as he understood why she needed to voice them. He was as changed as Starsky was the same. "I'm right here."

Prior to Fate, he been good at silencing the past, compartmentalizing and pretending it didn't exist. But he couldn't do that now. He was burdened by the past, gutted and adversely affected, haunted by all the things scattered people knew about him, weighted by all the things they still didn't, and his favored coping mechanism remained as it had always been. Propelled by the pain of the past, prompted by the difficulty of the present and future the only thing he wanted to do was run.

And if and when he ran, he knew—he was certain they all _knew_ —that he would never have the courage to look back.

"I'm right here," Hutch repeated, inaudible words which went unheeded by Rosie. "I am."

Pulling his ears back, Lucky tilted his head. Staring inquisitively at Hutch, his brown eyes seemed to demand the answer to a question everyone else was too cautions to ask: _You're here now but for how long?_

 **TBC**


	62. Chapter Sixty-Two

Hutch couldn't sleep.

Midnight came and went bringing darkness and nothing else. Despite telling Aunt Rosie otherwise, Starsky had yet to call, and tossing and turning, Hutch tried not to think the worst.

Starsky always called when working a night shift; usually they talked sparingly about their respective days, each proficiently dancing around more momentous topics while Starsky remained in earshot of Whitley. Neither long nor fulfilling, the conversations weren't without purpose; Hutch figured that, for Starsky, they were needed verification that he remained where he had promised he would, and for Hutch it was assurance that his husband was indeed still unharmed. The city streets were a nasty place to be after dark; sitting uniform clad in a squad car or plain clothed in an unmarked sedan, it was dangerous to be a police officer when the sun went down.

And without Starsky lying beside him, Hutch's mind was burdened with uneasiness, encumbered by an overwhelming apprehension that only served to highlight the mistakes of the past. His choices affected everything, even when he thought they wouldn't they did.

 _You know,_ the memory of Starsky's statements sprung to mind, tormenting him in a sing-song loop. _If you weren't so against having a cellphone then this wouldn't be a problem. You'd have a way of getting a hold of me when I wasn't around._

Glancing at the cordless phone sitting on the nightstand, Hutch ignored the tormenting words. He did have a way to contact his husband if he really wanted to. Hours ago, he had taken the phone from the living room console in preparation for yet another phone call that Starsky seemed destined never to make.

"Where the fuck are you?" he whispered to no one in particular. "And why the hell won't you call?"

Though Starsky's second return to work had been decidedly triumphant, Hutch still remembered how it had felt being forced to watch Starsky return to work when he was reinstated the first time. He had looked so afraid that morning; timid and nomadic, his gaze had relentlessly traveled around their bedroom at Venice Place as he had struggled to fasten the buttons lining his dark blue police uniform, barely making it halfway up the despised shirt before Hutch pushed away his shaking hands and completed the task. Starsky had been terrified of leaving Hutch's side but of what or why he hadn't been able to conceptualize. He hadn't been able to put his dread into words as he remained unaware of the anxiety Hutch had felt that day or the day that had come months after and the dreadful anticipation that had engulfed him just by answering a phone call from the most unlikely of sources.

It was a time when Hutch hadn't known everything about everyone—he had never known everything. With all the people populating the planet, with the overwhelming number of individuals surrounding him in the Bay City, how could he? He knew what Fate allowed him to, like how the barista at his favorite Venice coffee shop was pilfering funds from the cash register in an effort to support her meager lifestyle while going on audition-after-audition in hopes of catching her big break in Hollywood.

Or how the young female bartender at the shabby, sleazy dive bar that his childhood best friend, Jack Mitchell, had drug him to night-after-night had been wildly attracted to him. She liked him because he was tall, rugged in his worn flannels and stained work boots. He had reminded her of someone, a love once lost before it was given the chance to really begin. He had played along, unabashedly flirting and accepting her phone number, knowing full well that he would never call.

And he had known what Starsky had been doing in his absence—after the fateful day Hutch had been dismissed from Bay City PD when he had sought respite at the bunker on the Marcus Compound and subsequently disappeared for weeks. Placing a desperate phone call to John Blaine in the middle of the night, Starsky had permitted the older man to come to his rescue. He had allowed Blaine to take him from Venice Place—the home Hutch had painstakingly prepared for his comfort after selling the beach house— to a secret apartment the pair had once surreptitiously shared. At the time, unable to ignore the memories of what he had seen and endured at the hands of Simon Marcus and the supernatural entity called Fate, and helpless to calm the sporadic roar of the hereditary mental illness he had inherited from his mother as it slowly engulfed him, Starsky had needed stability. He had needed to be sheltered from the truth and the past by the familiar allure of a certain strength John Blaine had always displayed.

These were some of the things Hutch knew about some people because Fate allowed him to come into contact with them. But other information had come in surprising, serendipitous forms.

Standing in an isle of Home Depot debating on what grain of wood he wanted to buy, Hutch had ignored a call from Jack Mitchell but subsequently answered one from a party his caller ID identified as a Private number. _"Hello?"_

 _"Hutch,"_ Captain Dobey had said.

His voice was firm and insistent, so authoritative and familiar that Hutch felt as though he had somehow traveled backwards in time; he had no choice other than to reply. _"Captain?"_

 _"Did John Blaine call you?"_

 _"No."_

 _"Are you sure?"_ Dobey pressed. _"Maybe you missed a call."_

 _"I haven't,"_ Hutch insisted. _"If Blaine would have called me, if anyone would from PD would have called me, I would have answered."_

 _"Are you sure?"_ Dobey asked again, the slightest hint of sadness in his deep voice.

 _"Why are you calling me?"_ Hutch asked, ignoring the oddness of Dobey's tone and the call. _"What do you want?"_

 _"There was an accident in an alley behind a bar. Starsky fell, or something. I don't really know the details. You're sure no one called you?"_

 _"No one called me,"_ Hutch said uneasily. How serious was the incident? How worried did he need to be? _"Should they have?"_

 _"Starsky hit his head; he was taken to the hospital. I can't believe Blaine didn't direct someone to tell you."_

 _"Who told you?"_ Hutch asked. _"How would you know? Starsky isn't on your team."_

 _"Whitley."_

 _"Why would he do that? Why would Whitley tell you anything?"_

Dobey hesitated. _"He's one of mine,"_ he said, eventually. _"Not officially, of course. Not yet. I've asked him to hang-tight for the moment and stay with Starsky indefinitely until his reinstatement situation sorts itself out."_

Hutch hadn't had to ask his former superior the meaning of the statement. It was symptomatic of the one truth they all knew. At that point in time, Starsky couldn't handle the pressure of wearing a uniform again; he wasn't mentally stable enough to be out on the streets. But John Blaine had come calling, presenting Starsky with a tantalizing offer no one else ever could—and under the circumstances, ever would—and Hutch had no other choice than to let Starsky pursue it.

 _"There's something else,"_ Dobey added. _"I think you ought to know that Blaine was one who took Starsky to the hospital. That was hours ago, neither one of them have returned a phone call since."_

Departing Home Depot and beginning a furious search for his husband, Hutch hadn't understood Blaine's angle at the time. He had his suspicions—being privy to Starsky's secrets how could he not?— but it wasn't until hours later, when he parked his pickup truck in front of Rosie and Al's and was intercepted by John Blaine in the driveway that he understood the older man's motives. Born from a love, his unspoken intentions took Hutch by surprise.

And standing before a man whom he had every reason to hate, Hutch quickly realized that he didn't hate him at all. He felt sorry for the older man as he was silently assaulted with every covert, clandestine detail Blaine never wanted to share about his life. Hutch knew that, with regards to Starsky, every one of Blaine's actions where carefully calculated and meticulously planned for a single outcome. He wanted Starsky back. Almost desperate for his affections, he would do anything to recapture his love and attention, to keep him close and safe.

Hutch would have laughed if it wasn't for the circumstances; he would have felt sorry for Blaine's desperation if he hadn't been privy to the darker side of the man's intentions. He had purposely ignored policy; he had deliberately chosen not to call Hutch when Starsky was in the hospital, even when Starsky had requested they do so. Now he was entrusting him—covertly forcing him—into an investigation Starsky wanted no part of, because stumbling across Matthew Avery's body in the alley Starsky hadn't known what to think about the events which had led him there, but he had known that he recognized the brutalized body—he had already known that somehow he knew too much.

 _"It isn't going to work, John,"_ Hutch had seethed, holding his hands in tight fists at his sides. He had wanted to hit him so bad, knock him out and carry his unconscious body to the basement corridor hiding under Venice Place and allow Fate to do with him whatever she wished. But somehow he had refrained from assaulting him—physically, at least. _"You're an asshole,"_ he growled. _"How dare you? You know David is sick; you're not trying to help him. You're exploiting his instability for your own twisted means!"_

 _"You're one to talk about twisted,"_ Blaine retorted. " _It's because of you he's sick in the first place. Or don't you want to remember how Simon Marcus got his hands on David? You're the one who made him how he is. Everyone knows that. The only decent thing you ever did was leave_. _He was fine without you; he was better than he had been in a long time, but then you just had to come back, didn't you?"_

 _"Of course I came back. He doesn't belong with you. He never did; he never will. He belongs to me. I'm the one he married; I'm the one he loves—"_

 _"And I'm the one that loves him! I'm the one who will do whatever I have to do to protect him, even if it's from you."_

Staring at the ceiling of Starsky's childhood bedroom, Hutch's apprehension reached a breaking point. He couldn't stay in place a second longer, tortured by painful memories and mistakes. He need to move, to escape the claustrophobic confines of the tiny bedroom and do something that was certain to soothe his anxiety—at least momentarily.

Lying at the end of the bed, Lucky opened his eyes and peered up at him, his brows furrowing with concern. He lifted his head as Hutch suddenly moved, pulling a green shirt over his head and grabbing his keys out of the pocket of his discarded jeans. The dog stood as Hutch moved toward the door, intent on following his distraught owner wherever he was headed.

"Stay," Hutch said, pointing an instructional index finger with one hand as he shoved his keys into the pocket of his pajama pants with the other. "You stay put. I'll be back, I promise."

Laying down abruptly, Lucky released a deep, disgruntled sigh and watched as Hutch slipped quietly from the bedroom and closed the door behind him.

Xx

The streetlights cast the neighborhood in an eerie hue as Hutch strode to his parked pick-up truck. Collecting the pack of cigarettes from the console, he quietly shut the door. He didn't want to draw any unnecessary attention to himself, wake Rosie or Al or alert the neighbors that he was sneaking around the front yard in the middle of a dark night. He chose not re-lock the truck either, telling himself it was because he didn't want the noise to prompt him to be seen— a ridiculous idea as padding around the parked pick-up he sat on the concrete curb in front of Rosie and Al's front yard. Though the houses lining the quiet neighborhood were dark, obscured by curtains or blinds, he was in plain sight of anyone who wanted to look. Placing a cigarette between his lips, he held the lighter high, flicking the striker until a flame ignited the awaiting white end, and snorted. Maybe he wanted to get caught doing something he shouldn't be doing; it seemed to be the only thing he had ever been _really_ good at.

The first night he and Starsky had slept together had been a catalyst. Though the people surrounding them had remained oblivious to what had taken place in the apartment above The Pits, things began to change quickly—at least for Hutch—and the events that followed after where too momentous to ignore. They were the type of things that some people chose to arbitrarily define as acts of fate in an effort to soothe the pain of or dismiss uncanny, sometimes unsettling consequences.

Hutch had been engaged to Abby the first time he and Starsky had been together, but it was a betrothment that didn't survive for long after.

The morning after their abrupt, indecent coupling, Hutch had returned to the apartment Abby and he had shared. The living quarters had become an early bone of contention between the pair. He owned the beach house but when they decided to live together Abby refused to reside in it, stubbornly stating that she didn't want to build their future in a home Hutch had intended to purchase with another woman he had once loved. It was a fervent opinion that had taken him by surprise. Petite and soft-spoken, Abby was one of the most thoughtful, non-confrontational people he had ever had the pleasure to know. Nearly passive to a fault, her sudden, demanding opinion regarding their living arrangements had been peculiar and unsettling enough to implore him to adhere to her wishes. He had agreed to rent out his beach house but not sell it—something had kept him from making such permanent decision— and he begun the tedious process of moving into her small apartment, forcing himself to embrace the change he hoped would magically transform him into someone he wasn't—someone he could never be.

Slowly climbing the towering staircase leading to Abby's home, he had struggled not to think about all things he couldn't recall regarding the events of the night. It was hard thing not to be reminded of. The staircase of the apartment building suddenly seemed so reminiscent of the one hidden down a long hallway in the back of The Pits. Torn, blood and sweat stained, there was odd smell to his clothes. A faint, sour hint of cologne intermixing with the slightest hints of BO. While the smell wasn't his own, it wasn't foreign either. It was all too familiar; barely detectable, lingering on his dirty clothes was the slightest hint of Starsky. It was a palatable odor the majority of the time but not today, not like this. Like this, it was panic inducing.

The aspirin he had accepted from Starsky had been a terrible idea, but so was the coffee he had drank on the way home. The ice-cold liquid left him feeling jittery, more nauseated than before he had forced himself to drink it. He felt a wave of sickness as the liquid and pills agitated his tender stomach. Hesitating in place, he hung his head and moaned, a deep, hearty sound that echoed throughout the tight stairwell as his stomach lurched, threatening to violently liberate his body of its sparse contents. His headache felt weighted—a solid heavy object that shifted, rolling from one side of his head to the other with each move he made—and his stomach was soured, sickened by all things he couldn't recall.

He didn't know what had happened between he and Starsky, but the evidence churned his stomach with sickness and fear. He couldn't have slept with another man. He would never have done such a thing—not after what he had lived through as a child. What would people think? What would his father say?

There were many things the people who knew about the brutality he had endured at the hands of his uncle as a young boy liked to think about him. As a child they had called him unstable and damaged, and while neither participle had been easy to endure, as an adult he knew that the things they would think about him now would be so much worse. He wouldn't be gay; he couldn't be casually sleeping with men, not because of what had happened to him—not just because of what people would say if they discovered the truth—but because of how the notion of doing such a thing made him feel.

He didn't remember what he and Starsky had done the night before. He was disgusted and terrified as his body quaked and his eyes filled with furious tears; he knew that not remembering was worse than recalling every infinitesimal touch, every move that must have begun with the removal of a single article of clothing and ended with Starsky and him lying next to each other in the morning.

Not knowing what had happened or even how was so much more dreadful than knowing the truth.

He couldn't have been with another man—especially not Starsky—he couldn't tolerate the thought. He couldn't endure the memories, the complicated emotions that promised to engulf him if he had. Gripping the handrail tightly, he closed his eyes, unconsciously likening Starsky's gentle smile to his uncle's lurid one, the slight, fragmented memory of his partner's soft touches to his uncle's firm demanding ones. They weren't the same; they could never be the same. He loved Starsky—deep down, he knew that he did. Maybe not in a romantic way, but as a work-partner and close friend. –Starsky loved him, too. Hutch knew that by the way his partner smiled at him, by the way he protected and advocated for him when they were working.

His uncle had once protected and advocated for him, too, shielding him from his malicious mother, showering him with the time and affection Hutch's own father always seemed too busy to provide. Uncle Kenneth had always been a fun playmate, positive and enthusiastic in all the right ways. He had given the best birthday and Christmas presents; he always seemed to know him best. Hutch had loved him; his uncle had influenced him in incredibly significant ways. It was his parents who had given birth to him, but it was Uncle Kenneth, with his love and affection, who had laid the groundwork for the man, Hutch would eventually become. His uncle had been everything to him as a young boy—a friend, a mentor and confidant—and then, suddenly and dramatically, he was nothing at all.

In the long driveway of the Hutchinson family home, it was Uncle Kenneth who had taught him how to ride a bike without training wheels; surrounded by the lush trees and green grass of a neighborhood park, it was his uncle who had gifted Hutch his first baseball glove, consecutively engaging him in his first game of catch. And when his childhood ability for baseball seemed to be leaps and bounds above his peers, it was Uncle Kenneth who had coached Hutch's first t-ball season, then his second and third. At five, he had been much too young to participate in little league—though his uncle's eventual actions had led to Hutch being held captive for two weeks, the fallout of his horrendous decisions had lasted much longer than that—and years later, it would be months after his eleventh birthday before he would be deemed stable enough to join his first little league team.

It was Hutch's talent for baseball, his natural affinity that had allowed him to play for years after participating on that first little league team. Little league had led to coveted spots on both high school and college teams, followed by a short, six month stint, of A baseball. Unbeknownst to the outside eye, though naturally gifted when it came to baseball—and like most everything else he had accomplished in his life—Hutch had worked hard to achieve what he had. His uncle's actions had forced him to ignore people's expectations, to overcome any obstacle, to be strong—or at least to always pretend like he was.

But standing in the stairwell, paces away from the apartment he was meant to share with his fiancé, Hutch didn't feel capable or strong. He felt lost, triggered by the events of a night he couldn't remember and haunted by a past he recalled all-too-well.

He had been a consensual participant in the night's activities, hadn't he?

Starsky was nothing like his uncle—Hutch knew that—but why then did this moment feel so much like one he had experienced before?

 _"No,"_ he had said, his voice a desperate whisper. Gripping the stair rail impossibly tight, he gagged on the thought and his word. _"No."_

He was in trouble—he knew that the moment he unlocked the apartment door—caught in a situation that was destined to worsen with each passing second. The dissolution of his relationship with Vanessa had hurt badly but the end of this one promised to be so much worse. He couldn't stay with Abby, not now; with the deep-seeded feelings rising up inside of him, threatening to dissolve him into a sobbing mess, he wasn't fit for anyone to love.

 _"Hi, Hutch,"_ Abby said quietly. Sitting on the small loveseat, feet curled up beneath her, she assessed him with bloodshot eyes. She looked as though she hadn't slept; her gentle voice was gruff, evidence of the hours she had spent crying. _"Where have you been? I've been calling you for hours."_

 _"I..."_ Hutch faltered. He didn't want to lie, but he couldn't tell the truth. Nervously, he pulled on the sleeves of his shirt, clenching the thin, plaid material in his palms. He felt terrible. Sick and dirty. He wanted to hide himself in a hot shower, wash the night off of his skin. _"Rough investigation. Sweetheart, I'm sorry but it was another long night."_

Looking at the coffee table paces away, Abby's eyes set on the item carefully placed on its smooth surface and nodded. _"It was a long night for me, too."_

Following her gaze, Hutch saw the worn file and his heart dropped in his chest. _"What are you—?"_

 _"I went to the beach house. You've been so busy lately that I thought I'd head over and pack up some more of your things, that way when you finally got a day off you wouldn't have so much to do. All the stuff you needed would already be here, waiting for you, and you could finally relax,"_ voice quivering, Abby paused, pursing her lips and shaking her head in a devastated manner. _"I was looking for something,"_ she continued a moment later, _"and I stumbled upon the records. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry."_

 _"You stumbled upon them?"_ Hutch scoffed breathlessly. _"They were buried in the back of the spare closet."_

 _"In a lockbo_ x," Abby added numbly. _"It was the strangest thing to find. I saw it and I thought, what kind of things would you possibly have that needed to be locked up and hidden away in back of closet?"_ She looked at him, fresh tears filling her blue eyes. _"When I found it I had no idea and now I wish I never knew. You're Cameron, aren't you? You're the little boy they're referencing in all those medical records, the one the child psychiatrist calls dissociative and psychoti_ c. _They said you were dangerous. That you showed all the early warning signs of—"_

"I know what they said!" Hutch seethed, his angry words seemingly echoing through the living room, abruptly ending their conversation and dissolving Abby into silent tears of grief.

And that was when he knew—or maybe he had known it before, when he had dropped to one knee, given her an engagement ring and then immediately longed to take it back— Abby and he were never destined to last.

And like Vanessa, years before, she called off their engagement because of the records she had found. Though her excuses were different, the fear motivating them were the same. Both women wanted a family and neither of them trusted his ability to build such thing after the diagnosis's he had been labeled with as child—after all the things he had endured. Like his father, they had harbored outdated fears. They thought he was damaged, broken beyond repair. If he fathered their children then he would make a terrible parent, perhaps even a lurid and dangerous one. Abandoning her engagement ring on top of the files containing the secrets of his past, Abby hadn't actually said those words but Hutch knew she was thinking them. How could she not? Everyone else who knew the truth about what had happened to him did.

 _"You want make life decisions based on fucked up beliefs about trauma then go right ahead,"_ Hutch had said, his eyes shining with bitterness. _"I know who I am Abby. You may not believe that but I do."_

Abby's gaze remained rooted on the floor. _"You just keep just telling yourself that,"_ she whispered sadly. _"Maybe someday it'll come true."_

Exhaling a puff of cigarette smoke, Hutch stared at the ground between his bare feet, Abby's aged words resounding deep inside of him: _Maybe someday it'll come true._

That painful statement had stuck with him, wounding him in a way nothing his mother had ever said to him could. Out of all the people he had known, all the women he had told himself that he had loved, dear, sweet Abby had been the one to do the most damage. He was haunted her final words; he was still waiting, hoping for the someday when his insistent statement would magically come true.

Though, he never told her about his night with Starsky—there didn't seem to be much of a point to disclosing that damning information at the time—Abby had been right; he had been too stubborn to see it—another thing that didn't seem worth admitting back then.

That was thing about destiny, coincidence or whatever people wanted to call it, it was as predictable as it was shocking. One decision always led to another; good or bad, choices had repercussions and consequences, and looking back events always had an uncanny way of lining up. What was meant to be would be, no matter what one person thought they were deciding to do.

If the day hadn't been so traumatic, if he and Starsky hadn't gone to The Pits that evening, drank well into the night, and retired to the apartment upstairs, then would things be the way they were now?

What if he would have went home that night? Would his presence have prevented Abby from finding his records? Would he had married her if she hadn't found his files the night he and Starsky found each other in the same bed? And if so, would he and Starsky have met Simon Marcus? Would Starsky have gotten hurt? Would he have been implored to embark on his kinship with Fate?

From where Hutch sat now, on the curb alone in the moonlight, it seemed like such a rich game of _What If_ , captivating in the most agonizing way. So much potential had been wasted on the worst possible end.

Was this a part of Fate's plan? Had she somehow been puppeteering his actions long before he ever crossed her path?

It was a hard question to avoid. After all, Abby had found his files, not a short feat considering how well they were hidden, and even more curious: she had said the lockbox was unlocked when she stumbled upon it. It was impossible—improbable— and at the time she had said it Hutch had dismissed the statement as a lie. He would have never been so negligent to leave the box unsecured; she must have pried her way into viewing the contents. But in the end, it didn't matter—how Abby had found the records or what she had done to view them—because he had made his choices and he had ended up where he was. What was the point of agonizing over unknowns now?

An abrupt noise stole his attention away from his grim thoughts, the sound of someone's front door slamming shut. Looking up, Hutch found Margaret Blaine, bathrobe and pajama pant clad, striding down her front sidewalk, purposely closing the gap between them. For a moment, he thought he was imagining her as she quickly approached and then abruptly stopped and stood in front of him, her bare feet inches away from his own.

"Hello," he said, his blue eyes assessing her skeptically. What an odd thing; he could count the number of times he and Margret Blaine had stood in the same room together on one hand; neither had ever sought the out the other for conversation—let alone in the dark.

Ignoring the greeting, Margret nodded at the pack of cigarettes protruding from his green t-shirt pocket and expectantly extended her hand. "Can I have one of those?"

Glancing between the cigarette pack and Margaret, Hutch shrugged indifferently. "I didn't think you smoked."

"I don't," Margaret said, her voice terse and impatient.

Standing before him, crossing and uncrossing her arms coolly, Hutch couldn't help but notice the hint of seething anger glistening in her pale gray eyes.

"Me either," he said. Handing over the requested item, he smiled as she removed the lighter and the final cigarette from the pack. "Last one, that means you get stuck disposing of the evidence."

"Alright." Igniting her cigarette, Margret shoved the packaging into the pocket of her bathrobe, then offered the lighter to Hutch.

"Take that, too. It's almost out of butane anyway."

"You'll just have to buy another."

"No, I won't. I don't smoke, remember?"

Rolling her eyes, Margret stuck the lighter in her pocket. "It's awfully late to be hanging out in the street. If you were a few years younger I'd think you were up to no good." She peered down at him. "If you were a little less handsome, I'd call my husband, have him come home or send a uniform officer to come interrogate you."

"Because you don't know who I am," Hutch scoffed humorlessly. "If you don't, then you should by now."

"Oh, I _know_ who you are. Believe me, I do."

"Okay." Inhaling a deep drag of his cigarette, Hutch held the smoke in his chest, only expelling it when his lungs began to beg for a breath of air.

"You certainly smoke like someone who likes it," Margret commented.

"I don't." Hutch nodded at her house across the street. "But I like your garden."

"It's not _a garden_ ," she snapped, following his gaze. "A garden suggests that I grow vegetables, things that I take pride in cultivating and consuming." Shifting in place, her mouth curled into a frown. "I hate those flowers, almost as much as I hate that house."

"It's a nice house."

"I don't like it at all. It's so large and empty. You can have it if you want."

Taken aback, Hutch laughed; the suggestion that he could inhabit the Blaine's home, that he would even want to, was ludicrous. He had no need to covet anything the older man had acquired.

"I wouldn't be laughing if I were you," Margret scolded. "You and me, we don't have anything to feel good about."

"Excuse me?"

"Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about. You must think I'm such a fool. Sitting here, alone, day-after-day, night-after-night waiting for my husband to come home. Waiting for him to find a moment to call, waiting for him to look at me and notice that I'm still here."

"I don't think about you at all."

"If you don't, then you should. You and I aren't all that different. I see you and I know you see me. David and John, they're both gone right now. And we're both here, smoking cigarettes in the street while they're out there doing God knows what. You think it's over between them, don't you? It'll never be over. My John has been chasing your David for years. Oh, they've given up on each other, taken an extended break once and awhile, but in the end, David always comes running back."

She tapped the end her cigarette, watching as the ashes floated listlessly on the ground, and Hutch was too taken aback by her statements—her loosely veiled accusations—to concoct an astute reply.

"It was a different time when John and I were married, I want you to know that," Margaret continued. "The country was different; the world was different. John didn't have the options that you or David have now. He didn't have the courage to be who he really was so he told lies instead." Pausing, she scoffed bitterly, flicking the ignited end of her cigarette and sending a small burst of red ambers to quickly burnout in cold, night air. "My husband is not a brave man. He may seem like one but he's not. He would rather spend his life lying to everyone around him than tell the truth. All these years I've been a foolish woman, forcing myself to believe that there are just some things better left unsaid."

"Like what?" Hutch whispered, unsettled by her words. What did Margret Blaine—or John for that matter—know about keeping secrets? What did they know about the burden of everything left unsaid? What wisdom could he glean from this conversation, from a bitter woman standing in front of him, her eyes gleaming with anger, her expression weighted by one-too-many disappointments?

"There are things in life you _just know_ and others you never will. I look back now knowing what I know about my husband, what I've known about him for years, and all I see is waste. Who could I have been if I would have allowed myself to see him for who he really was? Who would John be now if I have summoned my courage and set him free? Now all my best years are behind me. All I am is woman with an empty house and striking garden. Years from now, when you finally summon the courage to see the truth, I wonder who you will be?"

"Why are you here? Why are telling me any of this?"

"Because I was dumb, _dumb_ young girl. John was charismatic; I liked the way he smiled at me, the way it felt when he held me tight. I bet you like those things, too. Not with my husband, of course, but with yours. I bet that you've believed most of the lies David has told you."

"Not all of them," Hutch disagreed.

Margret looked pleased. "So you _do_ know."

"Of course, I know. Apparently, I'm not as dumb as you were."

Smothering the end of his cigarette against the curb, Hutch's lips formed an angry line. There were so many things he could say to Margret—so many scandalous, heart-wrenching details he could share about her husband's choices in exchange for the vicious words she had spoken about his own. Though she alluded to know everything, he doubted that she was privy to all of Blaine's secrets.

At one time Starsky had been Blaine's favorite sexual conquest but he hadn't been his only one. And while Hutch was confident that, after everything they had endured, Starsky was intent on remaining faithful he was just as certain that John Blaine would never show Margret the same regard. There was no point in speaking of such things now; no purpose in uttering sharp truths to an already wounded woman with the intent of making an impossible situation seem worse. But still, he refused to be verbally abused.

"Why are you out here?" he asked, his tone quiet but firm. "Did you come to yell at me for someone else's mistakes? To take my last cigarette, then insult my intelligence and bitterly allude to things you pretend to know about?"

"I'm not pretending and I'm not trying to insult you. I'm trying to _help_ you."

"You're not." Hutch stubbornly shook his head. "You can't because you're _wrong_. It's over between them."

Taking a final drag of her cigarette, Margret crouched gracefully, smoothing the smoking end of the white cylinder against the dark pavement, extinguishing its glow into a streak of black ash. "Like I said," she whispered as she stood, turning to retreat into the safety of her home. "You and I are not all the different. I wish we were, but we're not. It might not be in this neighborhood, but someday it will be you waiting in the darkness for your husband to come home. You'll be tortured by everything you don't know and haunted by every tiny detail that you do."

 **TBC**


	63. Chapter Sixy-Three

_He was dreaming, Hutch knew that immediately._

 _Standing in the midst of the charred forest, he was deserted. Left alone to contend with the vastness of the foreboding woods, abandoned as he stared aimlessly at the entry to the bunker. Eyes locked on the steel lid, he couldn't imagine a time or situation where he would voluntarily descend into its depths. He couldn't tolerate the dark, dankness of the claustrophobic room hidden beneath the earth._

 _But his body moved despite his determination to remain grounded in place._

 _Gritty whispers surrounded him, deep guttural sounds that emerged from the thick, solid cloud of darkness threatening to engulf the blackened, emaciated trees. Creeping, it moved ever-so-slightly. It cut through the desolate forest floor, consuming all it touched, absorbing it into its dense, black mass as the whispers of the woods suddenly changed, morphing into an inhuman, elongated shriek._

 _Something terrible was coming, something horrid that refused to be stopped._

 _The bunker's steel handle felt cold in his fist as he hosted it up, folding the rusted hinges and filling the air with a grinding screech. The abrasive noise seemed to echo through the forest, grating on his nerves and embedding itself into his brain as he dropped the lid to thud heavily on the ground. He didn't want to be here—not again._

 _He never should have come to this place._

 _The bunker's mouth was old and decrepit. The slim corridor leading to its rotting belly was composted of crumbling cement walls which had never been maintained properly. The space had been swiftly erected, then quickly abandoned, and eventually forgotten. Precarious and secluded, its location invited a level of secrecy that only added to its mystery. No one knew who had built the shelter, why they would choose to disguise it so deeply in the woods, or how they would have managed to do such a thing. The land was rugged and hard. Composed of immovable boulders and soaring trees,_ _it was barely a conducive environment for the wildlife it struggled to sustain. Only the most resilient animals survived but only after allowing the grueling land to change them. The blackness of the land was unforgiving and the animals became robust predators, vicious and acrimonious in their own right. They did anything—and everything—necessary in order to live._

 _Hutch grimaced; there was time when this land had required that he do the same._

 _A ladder clung precariously to the inside of the bunker's wall. It was fastened and hung by rust covered fixtures that seemed to shake and moan in protest of being looked at. They groaned as he stepped upon it, resentfully accepting his weight. His feet slipped on the narrow bars as he descended into the hidden depths, slowly moving one foot after another until he finally planted them both on the dirt covering the ground and squinted into the darkness._

 _It was too dark to see anything but it didn't matter. He didn't need to see the decrepit room to know what it looked like; the memory of this place was burned into his brain, awoken in this moment by the stench saturating the space. The air was musty and thick, scented of mold and rot, blood and unsavory bodily excretions; it permeated his chest, encumbering his lungs with each breath he forced himself to take as he remained achingly aware of the familiarity of his surroundings._

 _This was the bunker where he had been kept as a child and it was the bunker where he had met Fate, each area existing, simultaneously mirroring the other though their respective locations remained separated by thousands of miles. They were in different states, separate cities and climates but somehow they had always remained the same._

 _Staring aimlessly into the darkness, Hutch jumped, feeling a sudden gust of wind tickle his ears. Squaring his shoulders, he stood tall, bending his elbows at rigid angles and suspending his hands defensively in front of his face. Heart pounding in his chest, he anticipated her presence before he heard her voice. He felt the breeze intensify, transforming into a frigid wind which howled relentlessly around him in the closed confines of the small room. He knew something was speaking to him, beckoning him closer—a familiar hissing in the darkness that seemed eternally intent on calling him home._

 _"You can run," the voice whispered, "but you can't hide. You can't deny what you've become. How the darkness has shifted and changed you. You think I am gone and I am. But a part of me will never leave you. A little bit of me has become embedded in even the tiniest part of you."_

 _"I don't want to talk to you," Hutch said. "This is my dream and you have no place in it."_

 _"More like your memory. Or have you finally grown bold enough to tell me I have no place there as well? Of course not. You can't and you won't. I was as much a part of you then as I was before, when you finally summoned the strength and courage to walk with me."_

 _"That wasn't courage," Hutch disagreed. "Or strength. It was weakness and fear."_

 _"It was grand no matter what feelings birthed it," Fate hissed. "Do you remember how powerful you felt? Do you remember how peaceful it was? I do, and I remember something else. As a child you hated this place, this secret shelter, but you don't feel that way now. In a way you are fond of this room. It's very curious, isn't it? As a young boy the events that took place in this bunker broke you; they left you haunted and afraid. As an adult you discovered yourself in the darkness. You found me and I defined you. In this very room, I made you whole."_

 _Hutch wanted to deny the statements but couldn't. He had promised to stop lying—at least to himself. He had dreamed of Fate before and he would dream of her again. She was embedded into his memory, into the very fibers of his brain. How could he forget—why would he want to reject—her and all the events that had influenced his life in such substantial ways?_

 _If his childhood had left him wary of darkness then he had even more reason to fear it now. He knew what existed in its depths, what kind of horrendous entities one could awaken just by stumbling across something better left alone. He had known that then—years ago—after rescuing Starsky from what was once known as the Marcus Compound. Perhaps he wasn't thinking about the evil in terms of a supernatural entity but he had known something was there—Starsky's devastation, fear, and abrupt change in outlook had been proof of that. He had equated the evil of the property, the overbearing malevolence that had greeted him in the bunker the day he had killed Simon Marcus to the maliciousness of the deceased man. It wasn't until later, when his life felt as though it was being systematically pulled apart, that he began to question how any of it had been possible. It wasn't until, one right after another, momentous things began to happen that Hutch truly began to question what was really going on. By then it was too late. He had did what he had done and there was no going forward or back. And instead of seeking respite in Starsky's presence after losing his career he had done what he had always done best._

 _He had ran._

 _He had never expected his instinct to lead back to the Marcus Compound; he had never believed he would find something lurking in the darkest corners of the bunker where Starsky had been held. He could have never anticipated that the darkness would be as familiar as it was; he would never have predicted that he and Fate would be rekindling a connection that had been instigated so many years before._

 _Fate knew him but he quickly found that he recognized her. It was as unsettling as it was unforeseen; he couldn't deny that he knew her, too. They had met before._

 _"What do you think of your life now?" Fate taunted, her tone turning mean, her bitter question seemingly ricocheting off the bunker walls, echoing around him. "Are you better or worse without me?"_

 _Hutch didn't hesitate. "Better."_

 _"That's a lie."_

 _"That's the truth."_

 _"David won't love you the way I do."_

 _"You don't love me at all."_

 _"Neither does he," Fate said gleefully. "Oh, he pretends. He was always so good at that. But the truth is just as that bitter woman told you it was."_

 _"Margret Blaine," Hutch provided, then questioned his need to explain. This was a dream, after all, therefore this Fate was illusory, concocted by his subconscious to torture him when he was most defenseless and weak. It held him hostage in a nightmare that, weighted by guilt, he knew he wouldn't force himself to wake from. He would embrace this pain, this stinging guilt, and horrific shame because despite the familiarity of her hissing voice, he knew he was safe. Born from memory, this Fate knew what he did—nothing more, nothing less._

 _"Meddling Maggie told you the truth," Fate said._

 _Hutch was taken aback by the nickname; he hadn't heard it before. While it was an appropriate assessment of the woman across the street, he was slightly shocked that his subconscious would feel a need to be cruel. Perhaps, he was more wounded by her words than he originally thought._

 _"She knows where her husband is," Fate continued. "She doesn't accept the truth about his deceitful ways but she doesn't deny it either. You chose to do neither. You know your husband, you remain aware of his past deceits; you are privy to his ability to tell half-truths and lies; and yet you ignore the clues to that which you don't want to face."_

 _"None of that matters anymore," Hutch insisted. "I can't change what happened between Starsky and Blaine, but Starsky wouldn't cheat on me. Not now, not again. He said he wouldn't and I believe him. What we have now is so much more meaningful then what we had then."_

 _"You are a fool; then again we both already know that. Early mornings, late nights, hours pass without him making as much as a phone call. If you didn't live in the same place you would not see each other at all."_

 _"That's my fault. I'm the one who doesn't want a cellphone."_

 _"And you're the one stuck at his childhood home for endless hours, surrounded by strangers."_

 _"Rosie and Al aren't strangers," Hutch disagreed, but he couldn't ignore the sting of the longing roused by the words. They weren't his family, not really. They belonged to Starsky—and he belonged to someone else._

 _"They aren't family," Fate said gleefully, aptly isolating his greatest fear. She always had been so good at that, so willing and able to use his greatest weaknesses and deepest fears against him. Her means of torture, her cruelty had always been effective. "Or maybe I should say they'll never be your family. You belong to people much different than that. How long are you going to deny what you are? Where you came from and what it made you?"_

 _"I'm not a monster," Hutch whispered, his voice unsure. After the things he had done—everything he had put Starsky through, all the appalling things he had made him do—he wasn't certain anymore. "I'm not. I-I've done things; I-I did things that were awful then but that doesn't make me monster now."_

 _"My dear," Fate crooned. "How am I supposed to believe you when you can't even convince yourself?"_

 _Opening his mouth to reply, Hutch closed it and shrugged ruefully. He didn't have a good answer and he was determined not to lie._

 _"How on earth do you expect to convince David? What could he possibly see in you now, after everything you did and all the things you made him do?"_

 _"He loves me," Hutch said weakly._

 _"He doesn't."_

"He does," a masculine voice interjected.

The gentle articulation filled Hutch with relief, stealing his attention from the dreary details of the dream; welcome breaths warmed his naked chest, each followed by a gentle kiss as soft lips worked their way up his chest and neck, eliciting goosebumps and a shiver of excitement which ran from the base of his skull to the bottom of his spine. Starsky had come home after all; there was no other explanation for the reiteration of his chosen name—Hutch—and the fingertips grazing his chest. Tender and ghost-like the contact was anything but timid as Starsky's grounding, peaceful presence pulled Hutch from the depths of another nightmare.

"Who are you talking to, baby?" Starsky laughed.

Eyes remaining clenched shut, Hutch shook his head. "Nobody," he whispered as the walls of the bunker evaporated around him, fluidly shifting into solid darkness.

"Who loves you?" Starsky asked, his voice a low rumble.

"You do. I love you, too."

The bed shifted beneath Hutch as Starsky leaned over, supporting his weight on his upper arms and knees, his pelvis hovering mere centimeters from his husband's hips. Full and insistent, soft lips pressed against his own, and groaning, Hutch opened his mouth to accommodate the deepness of the kiss. Starsky smelled of faded cologne and a hint of hand soap. He tasted of spearmint and beer—an odd combination given the early hour.

Hutch reached upward, intent on grasping Starsky's sides, but fingers splayed his hands remained empty as he swiped them through the stagnate space and eyes snapping open, he was disappointed by what he didn't see. He was alone; there was no one else in the room. He probably would have been unsettled had this not happened before.

He didn't dream while captive to Fate; his body hadn't had any need for sleep. And his nights had been filled with numbness, a bitter, dull energy which had led him further and further down the path which he had begun. In more recent months, however, finding himself stuck in a nightmare only to be awoken by a dream was becoming a regular occurrence—as was eventually waking up to find his recovering body demanding more innate release.

Expelling a hardy breath, he shifted his gaze around the room before looking down at his apparent, growing problem. The dream had left him hard, aching for a stimulating touch that wasn't his own. But it wasn't to be—at least not today, or any other day in the near future. If the things Starsky had suffered in the bunker on the Marcus Compound, followed by Hutch's extended connection with Fate, hadn't dramatically dampened their sex life then Hutch's brush with death and his lingering injuries had. Prompted by fear, encouraged by the overbearing strength of bad memories, their physical relationship had fizzled and faded.

 _Though not for lack of trying,_ Hutch thought grimly.

After all, before he had been shot there had been a handful of times where they had tried to be physical with one another, but the timing had been bad, and one-after-the-other each moment they tried reclaim one another was destined to be ruined by Fate's darkness. Each time Starsky had feigned bravery, each time Hutch had given into the pull and tried to take his husband in the bed they shared had ended badly. Fate's stifling, lingering presence had ruined the moment, dissolving Starsky into a quivering, fearful mess and leaving Hutch wondering if Starsky knew _—_ if he would ever truly _understand_ — that his bouts of fearful panic, the horror attached to the notion of being touched or surrendering his body to be used for some else's sexual gratification was something Hutch had intimate knowledge of.

There was time when Starsky's purposeful touches had once awoken the same deep-seated fears in Hutch. There was a time when it seemed nothing would allow their bond and relationship to fully-develop into what it eventually became.

Rising from the bed, Hutch noted Lucky's absence and smiled. Coupled with the gun holster carefully placed on top of the dresser and Starsky's tennis shoes haphazardly abandoned by the slightly ajar door, it was solid proof that his husband had indeed come home.

He gathered clean clothes and strode carefully to the bathroom, intent on addressing his demanding need before carrying on with the morning; his footsteps were nearly inaudible as his feet were chilled by the cold hardwood, but his hands remained warm, his attention set on the silver band encircling his finger. Sex or no sex, it really was a miracle—even after all this time—that he and Starsky could have begun how they did, endured what they had, and ended up where they were.

Xx

If Hutch had dreamed while in a coma then he didn't recall doing so— it was something he remained grateful for— but he remembered dying, the intensity of the pain radiating through his body, immediately created from the gunshot wounds embedded into his chest. He remembered his blood, warm and thick, quickly seeping and surrounding him on the cold, wood floor. He remembered the look on Starsky's face, devastated and desperate with only the slightest hint of relief.

Starsky had been vindicated. He wasn't nearly as delusional or deranged as once thought. His dreams had had meaning; fragmented and code-like, they reiterated the truth he had always known but tried so desperately not to see and believe: Hutch didn't begin life as a nefarious person, someone to be feared, but embracing Fate that was exactly what he had become.

The truth was not fluid; it was stagnate. Often heart-wrenching and painful, but never changed by one's ability to acknowledge or accept it. In that moment, Hutch knew that Starsky finally accepted this fact; the proof was etched on his crumbling face. Glossy and stout, his tears glistened mesmerizingly, streaming down his cheeks while he begged Hutch to live. He had to die—they both knew that. It was the one truth neither could try to refute. If Hutch lived then Fate would remain with him. Dying was the only way to silence her. To release her hold and shift everything back to their rightful place—or so Hutch hoped.

He hadn't really known if his plan would work; there had always been the slightest chance that it would fail and after his death, Starsky would be held responsible for their crimes but with Dobey's sudden, necessitous reappearance in his life, Hutch didn't think so. Dobey was key; Hutch was certain that Dobey's memories of his own formative trauma would be awoken by Fate. It would leave the older man terrified, threatened by a voice whispering in the darkness of a bunker on the Marcus Compound, but it would enough to keep Starsky safe. In the end, that was exactly what happened but not before Hutch vacated his body—not once but twice as he stubbornly fought yet another predestined outcome.

Lying on the farmhouse floor, Hutch had expelled a final shuttering breath and died. Fate's shriek was deafening as she was pulled from him. He felt a moment of intense trepidation then nothing at all. There was no pain. No regret. No shame. He was agile and airy, illuminated by his surroundings.

He stood, his feet rooted on textured clouds, his body surrounded by flaxen and opaque beams of light. Bright and warm, they extended into the horizon, stretching as far as his eyes could see. Momentarily, he wondered if this was the heaven so many people seemed to believe in. Then looking down and eyeing his clothes, taking in the bloodstains and bullet holes, he dismissed the thought. Such things didn't exist in heaven—and if they did then they shouldn't.

"You'd look different if you were staying," a man's voice said from behind. "But you're not. You can't. Dying isn't an option for you, not yet."

Hutch hadn't heard the voice before but it was strangely familiar. Though slightly deeper, it sounded like Starsky. Turning in place, he saw a shadow of a figure before his surroundings melted around him and chest exploded in pain.

The ground felt cold and wet beneath his vitiated body and he wanted to sob and scream, realizing that he was laying on the farmhouse floor again. He had died but now he was alive, seemingly resuscitated by Starsky stubbornness, his foolish, arrant determination to never let him go.

Starsky's determination aside, Hutch's body still bled freely; the dark substance quickly stained the wooden floorboards he had taken such care in replacing. Hutch couldn't see them, Starsky or Blaine—he couldn't summon the energy or the desire to open his eyes. He imagined their movements and expressions. Determined but futile. It was such a waste, all of it. A waste of time, effort, sweat, blood, and tears. The blood was his own but the tears were Starsky's.

Leaning over Hutch's immobile body, Starsky was whispering something Hutch couldn't quite decipher. His words were desperate; a frenzied mantra, that captive to agony, Hutch longed to understand the meaning of and _remember_ because he knew this was another moment that wasn't destined to last.

John Blaine was paces away, his face reddened as he bellowed orders into his cellphone. Hutch would have laughed at the absurdity of the situation if he would have been capable of it. Blaine had tried to kill him and now he was struggling to save his life.

It was all such a terrible waste, all the energy Blaine and Starsky were exerting in an effort to save him, to amend the conclusion that neither of them could change.

Hutch existed for a while that way, blood trickling from his wounds, his eyes shut, his body encased in the cold numbness as he was consumed by shock. He was captive to Starsky's whispers the words of which he still couldn't reason; he remained hypnotized by the sound until it suddenly ceased and the room was abruptly filled with frenzied movement of uniformed police officers and paramedics. He didn't realize Starsky was holding his hand until he let go. It wasn't until he felt his body being jostled on the stretcher as he was loaded into an ambulance that he resigned himself to doing the same.

Exhaling, he opened his eyes and found he had returned to the light. He was warm, peaceful and feather-light.

"Man, you are stubborn," the man spoke again. "Your father warned me about that."

Hutch wasn't surprised by the man's presence this time, rather curious, anxious to verify his identity.

"My father?" Hutch asked. Turning, he looked at the man and immediately felt short of breath. Though he had seen pictures of Michael Starsky standing before him was a shock. He was taken aback not so much by the similarities between Michael and his son but the differences.

Shorter than Hutch, Michael was taller than Starsky. He looked younger than Starsky, younger than he did in photographs, or perhaps it was that here he appeared to more rested, unweighted by worries that had plagued him in life. His eyes were a brilliant blue—a stunning attribute he had shared with his son—his hair was dark and straight, meticulously pruned into a prominent mid-90's crew cut. Taking in Michael's casual attire, his dark blue t-shirt, faded jeans, and worn tennis shoes, Hutch felt the urge to cry. The man standing before him was so much like the son he hadn't lived to see grow into a man. Michael had died too soon; he had only lived a year beyond Starsky's current age. His premature death was another waste, another terrible misstep, a horrible mistake.

"It's okay." Michael smiled understandingly. "Really, it is."

But it wasn't—Hutch knew that. Everything would have been so different had Michael lived—not just for Starsky but for him as well. But there was no point in agonizing about that now. Jaw burning, his throat tightened. "You mentioned my father?" he asked thickly. Was his father in this place? And if so, why hadn't he come? Why was Starsky's father here instead?

"Sorry, kiddo," Michael said. "I know you wanted to come back but you can't stay here."

"No." The idea was obscene. He wouldn't go back _,_ not after what had done. "I won't go back."

"You will."

"I can't make what I did right."

"You can," Michael assured paternally. "It'll take time. It always takes time before things settle down but they will. You see nothing is clear to you right now because your vision had been impeded for so long. You don't know what you need to do, but give yourself time because you will."

Hutch shook his head. He couldn't live. Why would he want to? He couldn't—he wouldn't. What would be the point? To cause the people around him more pain? To make yet another devastating mistake or misstep? He wouldn't be able to tolerate the pain—his own or Starsky's. He wouldn't be able to survive the crushing weight of his guilt and grief if he lived. So, why not stay here? In this glorious place where the past didn't seem to matter, where it didn't seem likely to ever hurt him in the same way.

"If you think that guilt and grief don't exist here then you're wrong," Michael said knowingly, extending his arms to indicate at the vast light surrounding him. "Oh, you don't feel it first. You're too taken aback by the peace of it all. The ridiculous difference between where you were and where you are. One moment you're lying there, gunshot wounds peppering your body as you choke on your own blood. You're in the worst pain you think you'll ever feel in your life." Arms falling to his sides, he shrugged and Hutch wondered if Michael was referencing his death or his own. "Dying is supposed to be painful and it is. But that moment doesn't compare to how I feel now. You see, you don't get to fix anything here. You don't get another chance to make things right. All you can do is _watch_ and _agonize_ over what you'll never get to say and all the things you can't change."

"I don't understand."

"It doesn't happen it at first. The regret kinda sneaks up on you, multiplies over time as you're forced to watch everyone you love hurt and struggle; that's when you start to really see the fallout of your mistakes. I had to watch my sick wife hold my terrified little boys hostage in our apartment. I've had to watch my wife struggle with her sickness and my boys grown up on separate coastlines without each other. One turned into a hoodlum criminal and the other became a cop, and honestly I don't which one is worse. I don't know who I'm more afraid for, Davy or Nicky, but I do know that I dread the day I see either one of them up here. I sit with that and I watch Rachel go through her struggles and I wonder how different, how better off they all would have been had I had the courage live."

"It won't be like that with me," Hutch said tearfully. "I don't have what you did. When you were alive you kept everything together; I tore things apart."

"Davy needs you."

"He doesn't. He thinks he does but he's wrong."

"Someone else needs you, too," Michael said cryptically. "You don't know that now, but you will. It doesn't make sense now but I swear to you, someday it will."

Hutch snorted. Someday was a maddening notion, seemingly as distant as it was abstract. Someday could be any day or none at all; Hutch had no interest, no intention of living in eternal anticipation of something he could nether predict nor control.

"I loved my family," Michael added, his eyes glistening sadly. "I did the best that I thought I could at the time and now I know that a lot of it was wrong. I didn't mean for things to happen the way they did. I didn't want to put Davy in the position he was in after my death. I want you to understand that then maybe someday, when the time is right, you can help Davy understand it, too."

"I can't help him get over the past," Hutch said. "I can't even let go of my own."

"You'll do that, too. Not by yourself, of course; someday it will surprise you how much the things that happened in the past won't matter to you anymore." Michael smiled. "Your father wants you to go back to therapy. Not your old guy, he says find someone new, someone you feel like you can really talk to. You need to be honest; you need to let go of what happened. _"_

"My father thinks that I need to be honest." Lip quivering, Hutch looked away. It was too much. His was father was here but instead of coming to speak to him he had sent someone else. He didn't know what he had expected. If not seeing his father was worse than being faced with his scornful disappointment. He had finally done it; he had given into the darkness and made his father's worse fears for him come true.

"It isn't what you think; he wanted to come."

"Then why didn't he?"

"Because it isn't your time."

"But it can be, right?"

"No!"

Michael was obstinate, the frustration in his tone and glint of anger in his eyes were so reminiscent of Starsky that Hutch felt compelled to take a step back.

"You could stay but you _can't_ ," Michael continued. "You have to see past this moment. You have to let go of what has been done. You can't control the past but you are responsible for what happens now."

"But if I'm in control then I don't have to go back. I don't have to do anything that I don't—" Gasping, Hutch hesitated as a hot, vibrating sensation engulfed his chest.

"It's almost time to leave," Michael said. "The paramedics working on you are good; it won't be long now and you'll be back." He lifted an authoritative finger. "And this time, you're gonna stay."

"I don't want to," Hutch said. Overcome by panic, his eyes were pleading. "You don't know me. You may think you do but you don't."

"I don't know you at all, but your father does; he says you're strong and capable, and I believe him. You've been through a lot; you've made a lot of mistakes, but if Davy can forgive you then that oughta be reason enough to forgive yourself." Taking a step forward, Michael's tone was insistent, "There's one more thing I need to tell you before you go. Things aren't gonna be the same for you. You need to be _careful_ —"

Hutch didn't get the opportunity to hear the remainder of Michael's warning. His surroundings blurred as he was shocked back into his stagnate body and encircled by a new kind of a darkness.

Xx

Lucky was waiting outside the door when Hutch finally emerged from the bathroom. Wagging his tail excitingly, he sniffed Hutch's bare feet, then, seemingly satisfied with whatever he had found, he whined quietly and pressed his head against Hutch's lax fingertips.

"Okay," Hutch placated, kneeling to accommodate the Dalmatian's request for a proper greeting. Rubbing his hands in Lucky's short fur, he wrinkled his nose, noting a strange odor clinging to the dog.

"You smell funny," he said. Leaning over, he inhaled another breath and found his senses assaulted by a combination of overly-potent, synthetic soap with the vaguest hints of car wax. "Ugh," he groaned disgustedly, then wondered why he was surprised the dog's porous fur had absorbed the most powerful odors of Al's car lot. As of late, Lucky had spent more time following Al around at his place of business than he had melded to Hutch's side, and it was no mystery why the dog smelled as he did. The Dalmatian loved water. There was little one could do to stop him from rolling in a puddle or chasing a steady spray as it was released from a hose.

"You're working too much," Hutch said as he stood. "Maybe you should think about taking a few days off."

Lucky yawned in retort, but his dark eyes sparkled joyously as he followed Hutch down the hallway.

They found Starsky in the kitchen. Back facing the doorway, his shoulders were rigid and his head was down, his attention seemingly transfixed on whatever he was looking at on his iPhone. He had begun to make breakfast then abruptly stopped. Various food items were scattered across the counter, a carton of eggs, peppers, onion, and a bag of shredded cheese. The coffee maker grumbled a series of gurgles as drops of dark liquid spilled from the top of the appliance into the half-full glass pot, and a cooking skillet sat on the stove containing a pool of bubbling oil which was threatening to crackle and spatter in protest of being placed on the red-hot burner without any contents to cook.

"Be careful with that," Hutch chastised, irritation coming quick and easy. Starsky knew better than to leave oil unattended on the stove. What could possibly be so important that he needed to stop mid-task? "You're going to start a fire. Turn the burner off or put something in the pan."

Head snapping up, Starsky locked his phone, then shoved it into the front pocket of his haggard jeans. "Good morning to you, too," he said as he turned around, his voice crackling tiredly and lips curling into a smile.

Hutch didn't return the greeting. Brows raised, he was too busy considering Starsky's unruly appearance. Dark circles had taken residence under his eyes, offsetting his slightly pale skin. Wrinkled and sweat-stained, torn and blemished, his clothes weren't nearly as clean as they could—or should— have been.

"Boy, you look a mess," Hutch said, pulling the crackling pan off the active stovetop. As he turned the burner off, he couldn't help but make comparisons between how Starsky appeared and how he had once looked. He didn't want to jump to quick, worried conclusions but it was hard thing to avoid. In the past, Starsky's outward appearance had been symptomatic of his internal struggles. And, suddenly—horribly—Hutch wondered how worried he should be about his husband's state of mind as this moment quickly seemed reminiscent of so many other mornings and so many other days when Starsky had been incapable of dealing with the sickness engulfing his mind.

"Has Dobey gone lax on his standard for work-appropriate attire?" he asked. Crossing his arms, he leaned against the counter, awaiting an acceptable response. It was a loaded question. It wasn't possible that the rotund man would approve of Starsky's disheveled appearance. "I know you've been working an undercover job but those clothes are pushing it, buddy. What are you doing, posing as some drugged-out hood?"

"Man, what is wrong with how I'm dressed? I was trying my best to look _pretty_ for _you_ ," Starsky joked, eyeing his pit-stained t-shirt and torn jeans.

The jeans were new, as were the bloodstained and frayed holes marring the material hanging around his knees. It was proof that Starsky had taken a fall at some point in the last few days and Hutch couldn't help wondering if there were other telltale scrapes or bruises that would tell the story of how hard or dramatic the landing was. Silently piecing together the evidence would be his only way of reasoning what might have happened. Starsky certainly wasn't going to tell him; he was no longer prone to complain about something so small—not that he ever really was—and the tears in the jeans and the slight hint of red, scraped skin beneath the material would be the only indication that anything had happened at all.

Green and threadbare, the Oakland A's t-shirt covering Starsky's torso had been borrowed from Hutch's wardrobe—stolen by now. By pure luck, it was one of two personal items that had survived when Venice Place burned down, only remaining intact because of the its location the night the apartment went up in flames. Unbeknown to anyone, the t-shirt had remained hidden, haphazardly kicked under Starsky's bed in his childhood bedroom at Rosie and Al's. It had only found it because in preparation for Hutch's discharge from the hospital, Starsky and Al had swapped the twin bed to one of a more suitable size for two adults to share. Starsky had worn the t-shirt countless times since and showed no indication of ever returning it.

The second item that had survived the Venice Place Fire hadn't provoked near as much joy as the Oakland A's t-shirt had when it was discovered. Its presence was forbidding and sinister. Hutch had stumbled upon it weeks ago when he had finally summoned enough energy—and placated Starsky enough to be allowed—to drive his pick-up truck alone. Lodged in the crevice between the driver's seat and the console was a leather-bound journal. It was the journal Fate had entrusted him with, where he had once stowed the old building schematics and worn pictures of the men who had preceded him as guardians of the Marcus Compound. It was the same journal Brian Blackwell had owned and after his assumed disappearance Marcus had gifted the item to Hutch as a clue. At the time he hadn't understood it, how he could see entries in the book that no one else could, now he knew that the book had been a clue but not in the way he had originally thought. It didn't lead him closer to finding Blackwell, rather further away from being able to distinguish the missing man's whereabouts. It was leading him towards something else.

Even now, it seemed intent on leading him somewhere—awakening powerful memories and foreboding fear. He had no logical explanation for the journal's survival. He had never placed it in his pick-up truck; he had never bothered to take from Venice Place. As far as he knew, the book had remained where he had always kept it, in plain sight on the dresser he and Starsky shared in the apartment. It should have burned in the fire, but it didn't. It should have turned to ashes that were blown away and lost in the wind. Instead it remained hidden, tucked away in his despised truck, patiently waiting for him to realize it was there.

He hadn't disclosed his discovery to Starsky. First because he was worried about his husband's reaction and what kind of conversations it would invite and then because he had become wary of the journal, too afraid to share its odd, persistent survival with anyone else.

"Ah, I guess I do look pretty bad," Starsky amended. "I haven't been off the- _fucking_ -clock in nearly thirty hours. I look bad and probably smell worse. What do you expect from me after a shift like that?"

Hutch shook his head. Nothing; he didn't expect anything at all. But he was concerned. Why did the hours seem to pass so slowly now that Starsky was working without him? Why didn't he believe that Whitley would take care of Starsky as well as he had when they were partnered together?

Whitley liked Starsky well enough but he didn't love him—at least not the way Hutch did. He wouldn't do the things that Hutch had once done when he and Starsky were working the streets. He wouldn't know to appease Starsky with junk food when he was in a bad mood. He didn't know that no matter how much he was encouraged, Starsky would never agree to slip into the backseat for a quick nap, no matter how hard he was fighting to keep his eyes open during an uneventful stakeout.

Whitley didn't know when to break the rules or adhere to them. He wouldn't know when to push Starsky or when to hold him back. When too-long dayshifts blurred into seemingly endless nightshifts, he wouldn't know how to handle Starsky on a stakeout. He didn't know about all the things Hutch had said or done in order to ease the slowness of time. The games he had played, the songs he had sung, books he had read, his voice a soft whisper as they sat in Starsky's Camaro under the cover of moonlight. Whitley couldn't know about all the times Hutch had forsaken his own safety to protect Starsky. The bullets he had dodged, the three-story leaps he had made, or how fast he had run in order to keep Starsky whole and safe.

Whitley didn't know about any of those things and never would. As Starsky had said, he wasn't Hutch. Whitley would _never_ be Hutch.

And if Hutch would have been on this particular case—if he could have somehow saved his own career with Bay City PD—he would have never allowed Starsky to look the way he did. There may have been some rough days and brutal nights during their partnership but they had always found time to maintain basic needs. Hutch longed for the old days. He ached for the times when he and Starsky were always together and rarely ever apart.

"You're tired; let me do this," Hutch said firmly, ushering Starsky away from the counter. He was slightly pleased when Starsky followed his direction, graciously allowing him to finally do something—even if it was as small as cooking breakfast. "When was the last time you slept?"

"Hmmm," Starsky hummed thoughtfully. "What night did I come into bed really late?"

"That was two nights ago."

"That'd be it then."

"That's awhile to go without sleep, Starsk."

"You're telling me. I'm starting to feel a little ringy and weird."

"That's not good."

"It's fine. I'm just tired."

"What kind of tired?" Hutch pressed, the words escaping his mouth as the dormant habit was abruptly roused by worry that refused to be placated. "Normal tired or bad-day-depressed-kind-of-tired?" He snapped his mouth shut, instantly regretting the question. Without referencing the memories Starsky believed he couldn't recall, he had no reason to ask such a thing and no justification for why he wouldn't readily believe Starsky's explanation. The past shouldn't matter if you were supposedly not privy to it. Covertly glancing over his shoulder, he hoped Starsky hadn't noted the question, likening it one of the many times it had been asked before.

Starsky's face was frozen in an indecipherable mixture of emotions. Still, Hutch saw his skepticism and doubt; he recognized the briefest glint of anger flickering in his blue eyes, warning of everything to come. The bitterest of arguments and the most terrible of conversations were certain to follow if he told the truth. _He doesn't love you like I do_ , Fate had whispered in his dream. _He doesn't love you at all._

"Why did you ask me that?" Starsky quietly demanded.

"Why did I ask you what?"

"Why would you ask me _that_ question the way that you did?"

Hutch stared at the kitchen cabinets. They couldn't dance around the truth forever—he knew that—but they didn't need to discuss it today. He didn't know how to respond, how to appease his husband without giving anything away; so, flattening his hands on the countertop, he said something he was certain would cease the conversation altogether. "I talked to Margaret Blaine last night."

"Oh, yeah?" Starsky grumbled, his voice deepening. "What did the two of you talk about?"

Hutch cringed. What was he doing? What was he hoping Starsky would say? Did he expect Starsky proclaim his past wrongdoings while he remained so adamant on burying his own? That wasn't only ridiculous but incredibly disrespectful. It wasn't fair to expect Starsky to do something he remained unwilling to do himself. He shook his head, suddenly intent on ending this conversation, too.

"Nothing," he said. "I didn't mean anything by it."

"Then why did you bring it up if you don't something to say?" Starsky challenged.

"I don't have anything to say."

"Did Meddling Maggie?"

Though Starsky's voice had a dangerous edge, it was the reiteration of the nickname that was most unsettling; Hutch was certain he had only heard it once before. Turning around, he assessed Starsky with wide eyes. "Why would you call her that?"

"What?" Starsky scoffed.

"Why would you refer to Maggie like that?"

"Meddling?" Starsky asked, then paused thoughtfully. "I don't know. I was pissed and it just kind of came out, I guess." He laughed, his expression softening. "Man, I haven't thought of her like that in _years_. It's stupid, but that's what the neighborhood kids used to call her when I was growing up. She always had a way of sticking her nose in where it didn't belong, telling us not to ride our bikes in the street or threatening to call John home if she thought we were up to no good." He eyed Hutch with mock suspicion. "Where you up to no good last night?"

"Must have been," Hutch said. He was so thankful for the levity of the conversation that he dismissed the nickname. Starsky must had said it before, he had just forgotten ever hearing it. It was the only logical explanation for Fate using it in the dream. "Because she threatened to call the cops on me, too, and I was only sitting on the curb."

"That'll do it."

Smiling, Hutch nodded at the food on the counter, intent on distracting them both. "What do you want me to make out of this?"

"How about an omelet."

"You got it."

They settled into a companionable silence, their quick spat forgotten as quickly as it had begun.

Remaining a few short paces away, Starsky watched as Hutch cooked breakfast. He was doing that more and more lately, lingering just outside of Hutch's personal space, seemingly either awaiting to be invited closer or too afraid to drift any further away for fear that Hutch would disappear. His touch was grounding; it was silent, purposeful contact that seemed to always say: _I'm here and you're here; in this moment, we're right beside each other and that's all that matters._

Sometimes Starsky would reach out, grasp Hutch's hand tightly, and lace their fingers together. And others, if Hutch was too busy to reciprocate the contact, he would simply place his hand on a thigh or knee if they were sitting, a shoulder or elbow if they were standing, and occasionally he would hover closer, wrapping his fingers around Hutch's shirtsleeve. The odd behavior was easy to accommodate if he was wearing a long-sleeved flannel; t-shirts proved particularly problematic when sustaining the contact but Hutch endured the discomfort. Sometimes he needed Starsky to hold on to him as much Starsky needed to do it; he needed to be reminded of what he still had, not of all the things he had lost.

They ate breakfast wordlessly. Lucky laid at their feet, hopefully awaiting a scrap or two, as they sat next to each other at the kitchen table. Neither spoke, their quietness not so much a symptom of residual anger but contentment. They enjoyed the comfort of one another, savoring in a calm peaceful moment that would eventually come to an end.

Exhausted, Starsky would have to retire to bed as some point, and too wired from two cups of coffee and his own restless night, Hutch wouldn't be able to tolerate crawling into bed beside him. The daytime wasn't fit for sleeping, that was what the night was for. Besides, he had promised to pick Keiko up after school, take him to the batting cages at Castle Hill and then to pizza for dinner. He hoped that after sleeping the afternoon away Starsky would join them. It had been too long since the three of them had spent time together, even longer since Hutch had seen either Keiko or Starsky hit a mechanically pitched baseball, sending it soaring into the air until it hit and rattled the chain-link enclosure of the backstop.

"Hey, Hutch," Starsky said eventually. Placing his fork on his empty plate, he pushed the items aside, making room to plant his elbows on the table and clasp his hands in front of him.

It was an odd posture for Starsky to settle into and coupled with the grimness of his expression, Hutch felt as though he was about to be reprimanded. "What?"

"I'm sorry I didn't call you last night."

"It's fine. I'm sure you had a good reason."

"I thought it was at the time," Starsky admitted. "But now I'm not so sure, because now I'm tired and dreading this conversation. I didn't call you because I was afraid of what I would say, and I was worried about what you would do."

"Okay," Hutch said uneasily. What did Starsky mean by that? Was Maggie right after all, had Starsky fallen back into old habits with Blaine? It was a question Hutch refused to entertain.

"I'm going to just tell you and when I'm done I want you and me talk to me about it, okay? I don't want you to tell me that it's not a big deal and then carry on like it's just another day, because it isn't. And I don't want you to act like it doesn't matter because I know that it does."

"Just tell me, Starsk."

"I looked into your uncle's parole hearing date—"

" _Starsky_ ," Hutch groaned. "I don't want to talk about that."

"I know but there's something you need to know about it."

"It's early; you're exhausted. Anything you have to say about that can wait until—"

"It already happened."

The statement was so gentle—so sad—that Hutch was certain he hadn't heard it right.

"What?" he asked. The notion that his uncle's parole hearing had taken place without his knowledge left him breathless and his heart skipping with anticipatory dread. "No," he added, shaking his head. "That's impossible. It couldn't have already happened. I'm the _victim_ , Starsky. They have to notify _me_ of the hearing date and nobody ever did that. I only knew it was this year because I was—" He hesitated, unable—unwilling—to disclose that the reason he knew was because he had been counting the years as they passed, secretly dreading the worst. And, suddenly, he was overcome by another question and unsettled by overwhelming sense of betrayal it awoke.

Why hadn't his mother told him the truth? Why had she acted as though the hearing was still impending and all-but-insisted he come home to speak in defense of his uncle's actions? Why would she pretend? She had gotten what she wanted without him. Why would she _lie_?

"That's the thing, babe," Starsky said gently. "They did. They sent you a letter that you didn't receive."

"How do you know?"

"I had the prison fax me a copy of the mailing record. They sent it over eight months ago."

"Eight months?" Hutch repeated, the number sounding off. He had expected two. Two years, two months, two weeks, _never_ eight. He had no recurring relationship with eight.

"They mailed it to the Venice address; they didn't require a signature for the delivery, of course, but the postal service tracking confirms that it was delivered. My guess is it was there, sitting in the mailbox when—"

"The apartment went up in flames," Hutch finished numbly. Hearing the bad news, he braced himself for worse. He knew the answer that was coming; he didn't want to know it but somehow he already did. Though he wasn't ready to hear it, somehow he had to be. "They paroled him, didn't they?"

"That's the part I didn't want to tell you over the phone."

"How long do I have?" Hutch wasn't certain why he phrase the question that way. Surely, he knew that his uncle's sins weren't his own. If he didn't then he should have—at least by now. But his conviction was fleeting, shaken by the realization that, like it or not, his uncle's release guaranteed complications. It promised the awakening of more emotions—and memories—best left ignored.

"How long do _you_ have?" Starsky asked. " _Jesus_ , Hutch, you aren't the one who did anything wrong…"

"How long?"

"…You aren't the one who did what he did. _You_ were the _victim_."

"How long?!"

"Two weeks," Starsky whispered. He made no effort to conceal his concern; he didn't bother to mask the sympathy glistening in his eyes. "You'll be getting a letter any day now, notifying you of his release and impending whereabouts. I'm so sorry, baby. Really, I am."

"It's fine," Hutch insisted, forcing an even tone. Of course it wasn't fine. How could anything in his life be fine again?

Extending a comforting hand, Starsky frowned as Hutch pushed it away and abruptly stood. "What are you going do?" he asked.

Hutch didn't answer as he stalked to the attached garage door with Lucky tight on his heels. A worn path on the concrete would lead him to the driveway, towards the curb where his black pick-up truck was parked, inviting him down yet another dismal road.

"Hutch," Starsky barked firmly.

Hesitating in the doorway, Hutch hung his head and clenched his fists at his sides.

"Babe?" Starsky asked, his voice steady and insistent, as though he was unwilling to allow Hutch to leave his sight without voicing an acceptable response. "What are you going to do?"

Hutch knew Starsky was afraid, but he was afraid, too. Deep-seated and all-encompassing, his fear prevented him from saying a word. Panic engulfing his chest, Hutch shook his head and continued walking. He didn't know what he was going to do; without Fate's guidance there was no way to know what the future would bring.

TBC


	64. Chapter Sixty-Four

Sweat dripped off of him.

Droplets of perspiration eagerly rose to the surface of his skin. Small and toxic, the particles only hinted at the pain lurking below surface of pale skin and grit teeth. His chest felt as though it was on fire, and his body had become engulfed in coldness. It was a frigid feeling that usually accompanied sickness, high fevers or terrible stomach aches, and it invited nausea and full-bodied chills. He would pay for this moment—oh, _dear God_ , would he pay—but he was determined not to think about that right now.

In the middle tunnel of a line of batting cages, Hutch forced himself to stand tall, black baseball helmet prominently on his head. The helmet was nearly a size too small and uncomfortably tight—a mild hardship in comparison to the rest of his body. He should have brought his own helmet. One would think that after all the times over the years he had ended up here, hitting baseballs in an effort to soothe emerging discontent or blatantly ignore mental complications attached to traumatic events and terrible days that he would have purchased a helmet that properly fit. But, like so many other things in his life, he could never seem to summon the foresight to do such a thing. He couldn't figure out how to make his life less complicated. How to learn from the past in order to prevent it from interfering with the future.

Clenching the dented aluminum bat, he struggled to ignore his discomfort and chomped on his gum. He needed a better distraction. He wanted a cigarette but had smoked the last of his pack with Margaret Blaine, and he was determined not to purchase another—not today. Maybe later he would, after the shock and sting of the morning wore off. He would make a quick stop at his regular place, a 7-Eleven on the very edge of the city limits, for yet another pack of unfiltered smokes and a disposable, brightly colored lighter, a pair of contraband items he would utilize then hide from the people closest to him.

Or maybe he wouldn't.

Maybe he would return to Starsky's side instead. Besides, he didn't actually need to smoke; he wasn't addicted. It was just something he occasionally enjoyed. And the agonizing nervous tingle of his skin? The way his tongue was dry yet his mouth was overcome by a surplus of saliva in anticipation of his next cigarette? Well, those things had nothing to do with anything. He wasn't addicted; he was in complete control.

The pitching machine let go of the baseball, sending it barreling towards him; he leaned into the swing, feeling a wave of violent—agonizing—vibration travel up his arms and through his chest as the bat made contact and the ball flew through the air. But the hit was anti-climactic, causing him more pain than it left satisfaction, as the ball hit the ground midway through the tunnel. Never in his life did he remember hitting this poorly, and his first instinct was to quit. To throw in the towel and the baseball bat, but as spontaneous tears filled his eyes, he forced a deep breath and himself to continue.

This would have been a perfect day to visit with a psychologist, he thought grimly. Then perhaps he could have skipped the need to invoke physical pain upon himself, altogether. But he hadn't obtained a new one and didn't have the courage to make an appointment with the one he had once seen. He hadn't yet reasoned how much of the past truly needed to be spoken about and dealt with. He hadn't yet decided how to address or speak of his experiences with Fate to an outside party. He couldn't tell the truth, a doctor wouldn't understand if dare speak of such things. Things that had no logical reason to exist but somehow did.

And it had been years since he had completed a visit with what was once his regular psychiatrist, a man whom his father had referred him to. Studious and discreet, he was a fine doctor; though he had never been the easiest person for Hutch to speak to. Their visits had been bi-weekly and mandatory—according to Hutch's father. It was the first thing the elder man had insisted upon when his son had finally insisted upon declaring his independence and demanded, in a tone with equal passion and authority, to be allowed to attend graduate school on nearly the other side of the country.—And their visits had ended abruptly, just after Richard Hutchinson had died. With the Blackwell case impending, visits with his psychiatrist hadn't felt like a priority at the time. Hutch had thought he had too many other things to focus on, and his sudden abandonment of the once stanch requirement had become yet another thing that wouldn't have happened had his father not died.

He never would have bothered with the Marcus investigation if his father wouldn't have died.

His uncle never have been paroled if his father hadn't died, either.

 _Two weeks_ , the grinding of the pitching machine seemed to hiss. _Two weeks. Two weeks. Two weeks..._

In two weeks his uncle would be a free man. He would be paroled and placed on probation, a status that would require him to permanently reside in Carlton County in Minnesota, which would lead him back to Esko. With a population of just under 2000 people, the township of Thomson was small, but Hutch's mother still resided there as did a handful of relatives, including his twin sister.

There was nothing to be done—Hutch knew that. Still he couldn't tolerate the idea of his nefarious uncle returning to the place they had both once lived. Where Hutch had been born and grown, where his uncle had finally summoned the courage to put his devious plan in motion, abducting him from his home and then doing what he did. It wasn't right—none of it was, not what had happened years ago, not what was happening now. They were letting his uncle go; he was going be allowed to live as a free man as though nothing had ever happened. As though what he had done hadn't meant anything at all.

The pain associated with the crimes his uncle had committed didn't have an expiration date. It didn't ebb, cease, or disappear just because the elder man had supposedly changed and shown enough remorse and regret to be allowed to be released. How could the parole board have approved such a thing? They knew what he had done. They saw the pictures; they read the reports detailing his every action in horrendous detail. No amount of good behavior over the years could negate the damage caused or the pain he had inflicted. Nothing would or could—not anymore.

What if his uncle was still a threat? What if he was destined to repeat his mistakes?

Years behind bars would have left the villainous man careful. It would have taught him things—to be secretive and cautious. He always had been so damn good at hiding his intentions— at presenting himself as someone he wasn't, as someone others wanted to perceive him to be.

But what if he really was reformed?

What if he really had seen the error of his once wicked ways? Then what? What would he say? What would they do? What would the future bring in a world in which Hutch would have no choice but to accept the new, startling, gut-wrenching truth?

Hutch didn't know which theory was less tolerable. The thought that his uncle had changed or remained the same. But he was certain about something else: His uncle never have been paroled if his father hadn't died—Richard Hutchinson would have never allowed it. He would have spent money to ensure he remained behind bars just as fast as Hutch theorized his mother did to guarantee the opposite, as a massive donation to the prison or governing officials had to have come from his mother in order to guarantee such a thing.

His mother's loyalty to her brother was impenetrable. She had always supported him with unwavering conviction and provided him steadfast, unconditional love. Excessive and gregarious, both were qualities that would have been better served had she chosen to exhibit them towards her children instead.

Hutch had wanted to call her the moment he had left Rosie and Al's house. He had wanted to seek respite in the worn phone booth where he had stood so many times before, hurling insults, accusations, and bitter words over a cracking phone line to the woman who had given birth to him but didn't. What would be the point of doing such a thing now? She had done what she had—or at least what Hutch theorized she did. An argument wouldn't change anything, and neither would ever see or understand the other's point-of-view.

Emily Hutchinson loved her brother and despised her son; she didn't care that Hutch hated her, too.

"Uh, Hutch?" Keiko asked tentatively, watching him between the thick mesh of the neighboring tunnel. Forehead wrinkling beneath the protective helmet hugging both sides of his head, his eyes narrowed worriedly. "Are you _sure_ that you're okay? You don't look so good. Your face is so pale." He smiled hopefully, unable to resist a friendly jab. "I mean, paler than it normally is."

Grinding his feet into the dirt, Hutch ignored the teen's words and continued to swing. One after another, the baseballs made a solid noise as they came into contact with the bat, soaring high into the air only to fall onto the ground with a thud.

"You're not hitting as well as you used to," Keiko commented. "There isn't as much power behind your swing. Man," his face contorted nervously, "I told you, you shouldn't be doin' this. If Starsky knew you were out here he'd have a fit."

"What Starsky doesn't know won't hurt him," Hutch snapped.

"You're not healed enough yet. You can barely hold up that bat."

"I'm _fine_."

Keiko chewed at his bottom lip.

"I'm almost done, anyway," Hutch added, softening his tone. His chest muscles were beginning to tighten, the first indication of the intensity of what was to come. Torso erupting into a series of small spasms, he nearly cried out as he swung again, then grunted painfully instead. Losing his balance, he took step forward, his upper body swaying haphazardly. He dropped the bat, bent over, wrapped his arms around himself and willed the pain the cease.

"Hutch?" Keiko asked worriedly. "What's wrong?"

Struggling to regain equilibrium, Hutch shook his head. Sporadic tears emerged from beneath his closed eyelids and trailed down cheeks.

"Should I do something?" Keiko pressed. "Do you need help?"

"No," Hutch huffed thickly. "I just… just give me a minute. I-I'll be okay."

Though he hated to admit it, his thirteen year-old "little brother" was right. He wasn't ready to be doing what he was; his body hadn't healed enough to support such rigorous activity. He could feel his muscles burn and tear, seemingly swelling with each minuscule move he made. But he couldn't stop now; his panic wouldn't let him.

When the electronic pitching machine ceased pitching balls and shut down, he quickly fed more coins into the slot and brought it whirring back to life. He didn't have any other choice; he had to continue what he had started. He had to reach a point when the pain would no longer matter, when his body would settle into cold numbness and his chest and torso would cease screaming in agony.

The longer he exerted himself the worse the pain became. No longer exclusive to his body it became embedded his mind as well, awakening memories and thoughts better left alone. He couldn't do this. It would take more than a minute to make him feel better.

Struggling to find a distraction, he looked up, his wayward gaze locked on Keiko's worried one, and he was taken aback by what he saw. It wasn't as though he hadn't seen the boy, but it was as though this was the first moment—in years—that he was absorbing and comprehending what he looked like.

Keiko had grown up, changed right before Hutch's lingering but absent presence. Under Fate's spell, he had been distracted. Physically present and mentally absent—for the most part, where anything she had deemed beyond his or her, _their_ purview was concerned. She had ignored, and by relation so had he, anything and anyone who did not serve a purpose to them. Years had passed in an instant and Keiko had become a teenager. No longer an eager, chipper little boy, he had grown into a reserved young man. Long, muscular and fit, he was large and tall for his age. Once credulous and annular, his face had become lean. His dark, sparkling eyes and the slight beginnings of his chiseled features only hinted of the handsome, inquisitive man time would make of him. Hutch couldn't believe how much he had changed; everything had changed.

And suddenly he was overcome by such a profound sense of loss that he felt as though he could no longer breathe. The ground seemed to shift beneath him, wobbling his precariously balanced legs and jolting him forward. Lungs rapidly expanding and compressing, he leaned over, grasped his kneecaps and choked on his breath. Black dots furiously danced in his line of vision but they were the least of his concerns.

What was he doing? What the hell was he going to do?

Xx

 _"You did what_?" Starsky had exclaimed. Holding a messy cheeseburger inches from his open mouth, he tossed it on the checkered paper lining the plastic, red basket the food had arrived in.

Wedged on the opposite side of a secluded booth at The Pits, Hutch pressed his palms to his steaming mug of coffee and focused his attention on the surrounding crowd. He was determined not to answer the question; the information his partner was struggling to comprehend was something Hutch had been intent on not disclosing—at least for a while. He knew he was lucky that it hadn't come up before. In the weeks that had passed since his break up with Abby, Starsky still hadn't had a clue something had gone wrong between them.

 _"Hutch,"_ Starsky prompted.

 _"It's not that big of a deal, Starsk."_

 _"Who are you trying to kid? Jesus, Hutch, calling off your engagement is not something you suddenly decide to do. Well,"_ Starsky amended, reaching for his soda, _"maybe other people do, but you definitely don't. You don't make decisions lightly. You're too thoughtful, too careful to suddenly do something like that."_

 _"Well, I did,"_ Hutch said. He blinked, the words thoughtful and careful not sitting well. He had neither been as thoughtful nor as careful as he should have.

 _"I thought you loved her,"_ Starsky pressed. _"Or at least liked her enough to want her around for the rest of your life."_

 _"I did."_ Hutch didn't. But meeting Starsky's questioning gaze, Hutch wondered who he wanted around for the rest of his life. It was an interesting question, as bothersome as it was thought-provoking.

There was a time when Hutch may have felt suitable for someone to marry, but he didn't feel that way now. He wasn't careful enough. He had never been thoughtful enough to allow even himself to admit how he felt. He was terrified—hindered by both past and present.

Though Starsky had remained as he had always been, jubilant and easygoing, something about Hutch's interpretation of him had changed. He felt drawn toward and revolted by him; suddenly possessed by his charm, yet intimidated, threatened and afraid of him at the same time. Odd and conflicting the fierce emotions were impossible to ignore. He didn't want to do what they had done again. He couldn't remember the specifics of the acts, but Hutch didn't want to repeat them—he knew that—and, unbeknownst to Starsky, the affinity that had once bound Hutch to his partner now threatened to tear them apart.

Starsky had always been a toucher. Grasping Hutch by his shoulder or forearm or even his knee, such contact had become synonymous with his presence. It hadn't always made Hutch feel comfortable but he had forced himself to tolerate—and accept—it. After all, what kind of guy has a problem with being touched? And what kind of threatening conclusions could one gather if he refused to consent to such friendly actions? He was more afraid of the emergence of the latter question than the former, which was why he had forced himself to comply. He hadn't liked it—he had never liked it. But only damaged people protested innocent advancements; they were helpless to anything other than liken them to memories of the more sinister moments lurking in their past.

Brow furrowing momentarily, Starsky's eyes widened. _"Ah, shit,"_ he muttered, seemingly disgusted—or at the very least disappointed—by something he had deciphered from his partner's guarded expression. _"You didn't tell her, did you?"_

 _"Tell her what?"_

 _"About that night. The one where we... Oh, my God! You did tell her!"_

 _"No, I didn't."_ Hutch shook his head obstinately, then reconsidered the truthful words. Since he couldn't tell Starsky the truth about why Abby had left, what was the harm in allowing his partner to draw his own conclusions?

 _"I can't believe you,"_ Starsky whispered. Reaching out to grasp Hutch's arm, he frowned as Hutch fidgeted, pressed his back against the padding behind him and dropped his hands to his sides, out of sight and reach.

Hutch hadn't intended to move away so abruptly. It was just a re-emerging habit that couldn't be helped. Skin tingling uncomfortably, he cleared his throat and tried not to notice how confused his partner looked, or the slightest glint of disappointment in his eyes.

 _"There really was no reason to tell her,"_ Starsky added in a punctilious tone. _"Absolutely no reason at all."_

He hadn't been wrong. Given the events that unfolded after their first night together, Hutch knew that there was no purpose in disclosing the truth—about anything, to anyone.

 _"Drop it, will you?"_ he had asked, and Starsky had complied. They never spoke about his engagement or Abby again.

Xx

"Hey kiddo." Uncle Al smiled, assessing Hutch cheerfully from behind his office desk. "What brings you down here at this time of day?"

"Do you have Lucky?" Hutch asked. Leaning on the doorframe, he looked frantically around Al's office, hoping to find evidence of the dog. He was left anticipating, however, as the office was as empty as the car lot.

Closing time had come and gone, scattering Al's employees and customers amongst the city. Hutch hadn't meant to come here, not when he knew no one else would be around. But it was Thursday, the one day of the week Al stayed after everyone else to complete paperwork and handle any other pressing business that had piled up over the week. Title work, covert trades with other dealers, or old fashioned accounting were just a few of the things Hutch knew kept Al busy most Thursday nights. He hadn't meant to come, but after complying with Keiko's suggestion—demand—that he drop the teen off early then return home, get some rest and recover, Hutch hadn't been able to picture doing such a thing. It was maddening to think he would entertain following through with the instructions of a thirteen year-old. It was unsettling—agonizing—to consider returning to Rosie and Al's home knowing that Starsky and Lucky weren't there. And while he didn't know where to locate his husband, he knew where to find his dog.

"Where is he?" Hutch asked. He longed for the Dalmatian to suddenly appear and fondly brush his trim torso against his knees, his palatable excitement filling up the room and accompanying his soft, greeting chirps.

"I didn't bring him today," Al said.

"Why not?" Hutch demanded, angry at the thought that the social dog had been left alone.

"David said he had the day off..."

"He did?"

"...He wanted to keep Lucky around so that he could run him later. He didn't tell you?"

Hutch shook his head. Of course Starsky hadn't told him; he hadn't given him the chance. Had Starsky taken the day to be present after communicating the information about his uncle's parole, or was that detail merely serendipitous? Had the investigation Starsky and Whitley been working come to sudden close?

"You okay?" Uncle Al asked, his face contorting with worry. "You don't look good. Your shirt is covered in sweat and your face is awfully pale."

"I'm fine," Hutch insisted breathlessly.

"What were you doing?" Al pressed paternally, then shook his head. "You know what, it doesn't matter. You're an adult; you make your own decisions. You don't have to explain your actions to me."

But Hutch wasn't so sure.

"I took Keiko to the batting cages," he whispered, the numb admission coming too easily. He needed to be careful; there was a danger in disclosing too much, but he couldn't help himself. He was in pain and he wanted to feel better. He wanted _someone_ to make it better— like his father once had.

There was a time when there was little in Hutch's life that a phone call to his father wouldn't fix. Oh, he would have to summon the courage to dial the number, bite his tongue and brace himself for the disappointment and judgement in the elder man's tone, endure his critical and often disparaging point-of-view, but in the end things would work out. They wouldn't be quite fine but okay. Tolerable. Hutch would confess his perceived sins and wrong doings and Richard Hutchinson would make his problems go away.

He frowned. Was that why he had come here? Had he traveled to Al's car lot not seeking Lucky but subconsciously seeking out Al's patrilineal presence?

"I take it that you didn't just watch," Al said, his lips curing into a knowing smile.

"I should have, but I didn't."

"Ah, you just wanted in on the action. Nothing wrong with that. You've been benched for too long not to want a piece of something. And now you feel like shit and you want your dog."

Hutch nodded. Though he desperately wanted to see Lucky, he knew it would take so much more than the familiarity of the dog to make him feel better. His father had loved dogs but his mother hated them. She had never allowed the family to own one; she would never stand to have a four-legged creature of any kind roam around in her house. And yet she had allowed his uncle to do whatever he wanted and take whatever he pleased.

Emily Hutchinson couldn't tolerate animals, but she had a certain, powerful fondness for monsters. She allowed them exist in whatever way they chose.

 _I'm not a monster_ , the memory of his own words came rushing back.

 _But you are_ , the memory of Fate's reply hissed in return. _You are a liar and murder. Shaped by your memories and experiences, your pain, guilt and shame, you are exactly as I made you. You are exactly what you were destined to be._

"No," Hutch whispered, shaking his head. It couldn't be. He wasn't a monster, and he wasn't like his uncle, no matter what his father, Vanessa, Abby or anyone else chose to believe. He had done things that were unforgivable—he knew that—but his sins were dramatically different than his uncle's. They weren't the same.

 _But what if they are_? A small bothersome voice whispered the newly emerging gut-wrenching concern. _You killed people; you required your husband to kill. Your uncle never took a life, or so they say, but you and I know the truth. There were casualties before he finally chose you. Did you ever stop to think about them? To count them? If you haven't then you should._

"It's not the same," Hutch mumbled absently. It couldn't be. Could it? And what did it mean if it was?

"You okay, kiddo?" Al asked.

"Yes," Hutch hissed. _No_. Looking up, he found Al appraising him carefully.

"You sure?"

"Sure, I'm sure."

"You don't look sure," Al pressed. Standing, he strode to the doorway, seemingly intent on grasping Hutch's shoulders supportively. He frowned as Hutch took a step back. "Ken, what's wrong?'"

" _Hutch_ ," Hutch corrected as he took another step back, then another and another.

He shouldn't be here; Rosie and Al weren't his family, and he couldn't tolerate accepting physical displays of affection from them, enduring their worry regarding his wellbeing when his when his own parents had always remained so reserved. They had been so cold. So distant—even now. His father was dead but his mother was alive, and he couldn't help wondering what his life would look like had it been the other way around. Had the wrong member of his family passed away? What if it he would have died instead? Starsky's life certainly would be different, Lucky's, Rosie and Al's too. He would have never hurt them; the pain and struggles of the last few years would be negated, rendered meaningless by his own premature death.

 _It's not your time, kiddo_ , Michael Starsky's dreamlike words reverberated through Hutch's ears but he remained unconvinced.

Unlike his own father, Hutch wouldn't have died from a heart attack; he was much too young—too healthy—to succumb to such a thing. A bullet would have done the job well. A car incident or even a fall down a steep set of stairs.

 _Oh, Christ_ , Hutch thought morbidly. _Stairs_.

"Okay, _Hutch_ ," Al soothed. "What's going on, huh? I know you overdid it, but you look... I don't know. Confused. Upset."

"Nothing's wrong."

"Obviously something is. I mean, you're here, aren't you? _Jesus_ , kiddo, you look like hell. You haven't looked this bad since you were in the hospital."

 _Kiddo_. Hutch cringed; it was a family endearment that was hard to take in the moment. A favored one that he knew both Al and Michael Starsky used loosely when addressing youths they cared deeply about. Though he had heard it before, both directed at others and himself, it stung hearing it now. His father had never used such endearments; Hutch had been lucky if his father slipped up and referred to him by his given name. The name had been abandoned, forgotten by most. Never one to be predicted, Jack Mitchell had unearthed it and lately it had gone conveniently overlooked. It had been neatly buried along with Mitchell's depredated body.

Jack Mitchell had died because he chose to descend the basement stairs. Falling and cracking his skull, the scene hadn't been clean but it had been neat. A perfectly packaged—logical—cause of death for the coroner nearly thirty-six hours after he was brought to the emergency room and declared DOA. The real cause of Mitchell's untimely death had been buried—a dirty secret between Hutch and Fate, and while Hutch couldn't tell the truth, he longed for a day when he wouldn't have to guard secrets anymore.

Falling down a staircase Mitchell had died, but being shot twice, pointblank in the chest, Hutch had lived. What was the point—where was the logic of that? It didn't make sense and it certainly wasn't fair.

People could say whatever disparaging things they wanted to about Mitchell while he was alive—a lot had. He was too chipper, too outgoing. Obnoxious. Careless. He had lived each day of his life as it had come; and with his father's financial support, he had had little concern for tomorrow or day after that. His outlook wasn't necessary bad; however, Hutch understood how it could be perceived. Most thought Mitchell wasn't serious enough, that he lived his life without honoring or respecting those around him. But Hutch had known him better than most ever could—or would now.

Mitchell had been a good man; save for Starsky, he had been the best friend Hutch had ever had. He was dependable and strong. Always willing to lend a helping hand, he was honest. Never in his life had Mitchell felt required to lie. Even when they were teens, when he had been caught on school property with cigarettes or alcohol, or with his hand down an all-too-willing girl's pants. Mitchell had always owned his behavior. He had always taken responsibly for his mistakes and been brave enough to tell the truth. Perhaps that was why Hutch had allowed him to move in. Mitchell's pressing illness aside, maybe Hutch had seen an opportunity and taken it. If he couldn't tell Starsky the truth—if Fate wouldn't allow him to be present in certain ways—then maybe Jack Mitchell could.

"What's going on, Ken?" Al asked again, seemingly reiterating the hated name by accident.

"What if I told you that's not my name?" Hutch asked, a hint of madness in his tone. He had hated Mitchell so much for speaking about the past. For gregariously adding to Starsky's confusion and skepticism. He had invited Mitchell into his home to help him and for Mitchell to unknowing help them in return; inoperable brain tumor or not, Hutch never intended for him to die.

But what would have happened if Mitchell would have lived? What would their lives look like now? Would more details have come out? Would Hutch—or Starsky—have had the courage to challenge Fate's hold? Or would things have stayed the same, engaging them in a never-ending, violent circle of maintaining status-quo?

"What are you talking about?" Al asked. "You're not making any sense. You only have the one name. I've known you for a long time; I think I know who you are by now."

"You don't," Hutch insisted, his stomach churning with guilt. Fate had demanded he kill, a barbarous mandate to supplement her existence that he had in-turn ordered Starsky to consummate. He had done things—terrible, horrible, horrendous things. First as a child, then as a grown man. He wasn't the same as his uncle, he was worse. "You have no idea who I am. Or what I'm capable of."

"You're joking."

"I'm not," Hutch said and he was taken aback by such an unsettling sense of wrongness that he wanted nothing more than to disappear. He couldn't be here—not after what happened, not after what he did—and he shouldn't be discussing the past.

Starsky was lucky—and so was he—that their culpability in the homicides they had committed had never been proven, that they had never been properly linked to their crimes. John Blaine had tried to hold Starsky responsible; however, with Dobey's help it seemed it was a topic no longer up for discussion or debate.

Nothing was up for discussion. He and Starsky couldn't seem to talk about a thing.

"I should go," Hutch said. "I'll see you at the house." His arms felt heavy at his sides as he strode out the office door.

"What is it?" Al asked.

Enveloped in the darkness of the showroom, Hutch paused and turned. "What?"

Sticking his hands in his pockets, Al shrugged; his flax facial features were indecipherable as his voice deepened with worry. "This real name that you think you have."

The question was simple, it was the answer that was difficult. But, oddly, Hutch didn't hesitate disclosing the long hidden truth.

"Cameron," he said, surprising even himself. "My real name is Cameron."

Xx

Driving through the city, pushing his conversation with Al to the back of his mind, Hutch thought about his birth name. Where it had come from, the people had long stopped referring to him by the moniker, the ones who never did, and those who never would.

He had never wanted to be Kenneth—he had never intended to be. But who was Cameron? Who had that little boy been destined to be before his future had been violently torn away and he had become lost in the darkness?

Xx

Starsky was outside when Hutch finally returned to Rosie and Al's house. Sitting on the cement stairs leading to the front door, he held his iPhone to his ear, having been caught either engaged in a phone conversation or checking his voicemail. He smiled and waved. It was a joyful greeting that went unreturned by Hutch as he slipped slowly and carefully, minding his sore chest and ribcage, from the driver's seat of his pick-up truck.

"Hey," Starsky said into the phone. "Hutch just pulled up; I got to go." Rising from the stairs, he looked at the sidewalk and mumbled something Hutch couldn't hear. Then locking his phone, he shoved it into his jeans pocket and approached Hutch in the driveway.

"What are you doing here?" Hutch asked. It was an honest question, albeit a loaded one. Al had advised Hutch that Starsky's hadn't gone to work, but Hutch wondered if it was a detail Starsky would feel compelled to share now that the day was nearly over. Soon it would be night and who knew what the darkness would bring.

"I was waiting for you," Starsky said.

"Who was on the phone?"

"Nobody." The question was dismissed easily, with a shake of Starsky's head. "Where you coming from? You've been gone all day."

"You haven't?" Hutch countered, his gaze set on the sun as it hung low, its mass mostly obscured by the tops of the neighborhood houses, setting in the distant horizon.

"No. I took the day."

"Took it or Dobey gave it to you?" Hutch challenged, his doubt creeping in. Had Starsky taken the day in preparation of the fallout of the startling information he had shared that morning? Or had the timing merely been serendipitous? An opportunity to seek respite in him that Hutch had impulsively wasted. So much had already been wasted; he hated to think Starsky had squandered the day waiting for him.

"What difference does it make?" Starsky laughed exasperatedly. "I was here and you weren't. Were both here now so let's not fight, okay? We see so little of each other; I want to enjoy the time we have without getting into stupid fights about arbitrary shit." Reaching out, he brushed his fingers across Hutch's forearm, then cupped the back of his neck. "Okay?" he asked.

His voice was so soft, his face so full of love, that Hutch had no choice to do anything but agree. "Okay," he said, and Starsky pulled him into a hug. Resting his head on his shoulder, Hutch grimaced, his tender torso protesting his husband's firm hold. It shouldn't have hurt—under normal circumstances it wouldn't have—but the aftereffects of the taxing afternoon activities lingered.

"Too tight?" Starsky asked, his voice rich with mock innocence.

"No," Hutch lied. "Did you talk to Al?" _And did he tell you exactly why this might hurt me?_

"I haven't. Should I?"

"No."

"Good because it's Thursday. I'd hate to bother him while he's working late, trying to get stuff done. You hungry? It's getting late. Do you want to hit up someplace for dinner, just the two of us?"

"I guess."

"Terrific." Stepping out of the embrace, Starsky smoothed his palms over the wrinkles in Hutch's t-shirt, then looked him up and down in an approving manner. "Give me your keys," he said, extending his hand expectantly.

"Why?"

"Because I'm driving." Starsky grinned. "Do you really think that after you overexerted yourself at batting cages that I'm going to let you chauffeur me around?"

Handing over his keys, Hutch forced an uncomfortable smile. "I thought you didn't talk to Al."

"I didn't. Let's just say your little brother sucks at keeping secrets."

"I don't have a brother."

"That was Keiko on the phone. It seems the two of you had quite an afternoon. He's worried about you."

"I'm fine."

"And why wouldn't you be?" Starsky rumbled. Tired and low, there was a hint of disappointment in his tone. Clenching the keyring in a tight fist, he looked at Hutch intently. "Where do you want to go?"

"Go?" Hutch asked, mistaking the innocent question for a veiled accusation.

Did Starsky know how uncomfortable he had become? Surely, he did. He knew Hutch better than anyone. He would have observed his avoidant behavior, noted his anxiety and inability to stay in place or around others for very long. In the months since he had woken from a coma, he and become distant. Quiet, absent, and detached from the life he had found himself in. They all knew he wasn't comfortable; Rosie, Al, and Starsky all knew; they just didn't know how to help or what to do. How can you help someone who doesn't think their problems exist?

 _You don't_ , Hutch thought sadly. _Eventually, the past catches up and makes people impatient and less understanding; it leaves interpretations misshapen and skewed. It changes everything._

And looking at Starsky, noting his careful posture and his guarded eyes, Hutch realized that everything had already changed. He just hadn't wanted to admit it. He couldn't change the past any more than he could predict the future—any more than he could admit what he remembered and knew. He should have been able to. After everything had happened, everything they had done, separate and together, he should have felt confident confiding in Starsky. But he didn't.

And all at once the truth overwhelmed him, suffocating him with its irrefutable certainty. He was afraid, not of the details of what had happened or what he had done, but of what he had yet to do. He was terrified of his potential, of what he could do. What he wanted to do, really.

"What do you want to eat?" Starsky asked.

"I don't know. I don't care. I'll do whatever you want me to."

"I'm not asking you to do anything."

"I know you're not." Hutch grimaced. Perhaps Starsky's statements were not as innocent as he wanted to think.

"I just want you to know that you can talk to me."

"I do."

"Yeah, but I want you to believe it. I want you to feel safe. Comfortable and confident in the strength of our relationship and marriage trust and confide in me. I know we haven't always been good at that, and I—"

" _Safe_?" Hutch scoffed. "You want me to feel safe in our marriage?" The assertion was ridiculous. Simplistic and generic, it sounded like advice a psychiatrist or a couple's counselor would provide. It was infuriating to hear Starsky voice such a declaration.

" _Hutch_." Starsky rolled his eyes exasperatedly. "Don't start with me, not after this morning. All things considered, today is not a day I want to argue with you. All I'm saying is that we need to get better at leaning on each other, talking to each other and telling the truth, even when it's scary and hard. We need to strong enough to be better than we were."

Holding his breath, Hutch braced himself to be pressed about the details of the day. Like why he had left so suddenly, where he had gone after dropping Keiko off hours ago, or how he felt about his uncle's release.

Starsky showed no interest in asking predictable questions. "You'd tell me if you weren't okay?" he asked softly. "If you needed help, were struggling with how things are or remembering what happened, you'd come to me so that we could work it out together, wouldn't you?"

"Sure," Hutch lied.

"You trust me enough to let me support you?"

"Of course."

"And there's nothing you want to talk about? Nothing you want to tell me or anything you need to hear from me to make you feel better about what you found out this morning?"

"No."

Starsky stared at him, his eyes sparking with sad doubt. "Okay," he said eventually, the word thick as he shifted his gaze to the black pick-up truck. "I guess, I believe you."

But Hutch didn't believe the response. He could tell that his husband had responded to the lie with his own. Assurances aside, he was doing what he always did—they both were. They were helpless to do anything other than fulfill the prophetic warning Huggy had uttered years ago.

Xx

 _"Man, Hug,"_ Hutch had said. His voice was quiet as he looked around, assessing the sparse afternoon crowd of The Pits with glassy, inebriated eyes. _"How much would you charge to fill a growler of this beer?"_

 _"This is bar, not a brewery,"_ Huggy said flatly as he answered Hutch's question with the same response he always provided when the blond man drunkenly posed it. _"How many times do I gotta tell you, it would be illegal for me to fill outside containers for any of my patrons? You're a cop, Hutch. This information isn't exactly new to you. If I get caught selling containers of what I have on tap the fine is the same; it doesn't matter who the person I'm selling it to is, whether they're packing gold badges and guns or not. That's the kinda sloppy shit that could sink a fine establishment such as this."_

 _"Ah, come on. I wouldn't tell anybody!"_

Huggy shook his head. _"Not a chance."_

 _"It could be our secret."_

 _"I have enough of those already."_

 _"You sure?"_ Hutch tried, his expression becoming earnest. _"I'm really good at keeping secrets. Besides, you're the only one in the city who has this beer on tap and—"_

 _"And you love it, and it's your favorite,"_ Huggy finished. _"Which is exactly why I allow you to drink yourself silly and then retire to the warmth and safety of my upstairs apartment to sleep it off."_

 _"I thought we were friends, Hug."_

 _"We are. What makes you think that I let just anyone hang-out upstairs? That apartment is only reserved for a small circle of my closest associates. You should feel honored you found your name on the list. I am very selective."_

 _"And particular,"_ Hutch groaned into the lip of his glass.

Huggy grinned. _"Speaking of particular, you heard from that partner of yours today?"_

 _"Nope. We're off the clock. Dobey left us to our own devices for the weekend."_

 _"Wow. The two of you must have done something right…"_

 _"Or wrong."_

 _"…For Dobey to allow you to take both a Saturday and Sunday in a row. I suppose that explains why you've got your ass glued to my barstool at this hour, but it doesn't explain the absence of your other half."_

 _"My other half?"_ Hutch scoffed.

Face contorting, he was confused over the ease in which the tall man had used such an endearment to refer to Starsky. Of course, he was also drunk, which probably added to his hesitance to accept the benign term. Bad things had a way of happening when he allowed himself to imbibe—waking up next to Starsky in the upstairs apartment was the latest proof, in an already momentous pile of moments, which had long proven his theory and transformed into a law. He had no intention of gathering anymore regretful memories or stirring suspicion amongst friends. Scandalous or not, the night he and Starsky had shared hadn't happened—at least that was what he had begun telling himself.

 _It didn't happen._ That was the statement Hutch had begun silently repeating anytime he needed to soothe himself. When his anxiety about being in too-close proximity with another person—it didn't matter who—became too much; when he had to force himself not to move or take a defensive step forward or back when his partner, Captain Dobey, or even Lucas Huntley reached out a companionable hand. He had to force himself not to flinch or move because more and more he was finding that he didn't like to be touched.

 _It didn't happen. I didn't touch him and he sure didn't touch me._ Hutch had thought, each time he sat in his Psychiatrist's stuffy office wanting to recoil as the man asked him if he had anything new he needed to talk about. If there were any recent developments in life that he felt he needed to work through in order to gain clarity, acceptance, or peace. The answer was no, of course; it always had to be no. Hutch couldn't be comforted by his silent, analgesic aphorism if he was verbally invalidating it. He couldn't believe his false story if he was quick to refute it. The pain of the truth could be abated if it was ignored, and, if left discounted for long enough, it was amazing how easily a lie could become the truth.

 _"Starsky,"_ Huggy said, adding to Hutch's discomfort. _"Don't act like you don't know. The two of you have been attached at the hip—"_

 _"We're not attached to each other in any other way but what is required professionally,"_ Hutch explicated, his voice becoming low, dangerous, and defensive in spite of his determination to remain calm. _It didn't happen,_ he reminded himself. _No need to be upset about what he means when his insinuations are false._

 _"The two of you are close."_

 _"So, we're close. That doesn't mean anything."_

 _"I didn't say that it did. You're the one acting strange about it."_ Leaning over the bar top, Huggy rested his elbows heavily, clasped his hands tightly, and sighed leadenly. _"Tell me,"_ he said, his voice soft and reticent, after Hutch drank the last of his beer. _"That you the two of you didn't do what I think you did. What I told you not to do—"_

 _"How about a refill?"_ Setting his beer glass on the bar, Hutch tilted his head at the tap.

 _"How about an answer?"_ Huggy insisted. He made no effort to move.

 _"There's nothing to be answered because I don't know what you're talking about."_

Huggy was unconvinced but conceded. _"Okay,"_ he sighed. _"You want to play it like that, fine, but I'm gonna speak my peace because I don't want to live the rest of my life knowin' that I didn't. Look, Hutch, you're a nice guy. I like you; like I said before, we're friends, and Starsky is my best friend in whole word, no offense to you. I love him like a brother. I don't like saying stuff like this about a friend, even if it's just to another friend, but chasing Starsky is a waste of time."_

 _"I am not chasing him."_

 _"Loving him the way you're thinking about is only going to hurt you."_

 _"I don't love him!"_ Hutch forced a laugh. Deep, false, and angry it left his chest aching. _"He's my work partner. We're friends, Huggy. Nothing more, nothing less."_

 _"Like I said, loving him is only going to hurt you,"_ Huggy repeated firmly. _"Starsky is taken, Hutch. He may not act like it, but he is. He's been seeing a guy for a long time."_

 _"Guy?"_ Hutch asked flatly. His defensive anger was forgotten in instant; it was erased by disappointment and an odd surge of jealousy as the tall man's disclosure shook him to his core. Starsky was taken? But how could that be? Hutch didn't want Starsky. He didn't want to love in in "that" way. But could it be possible that he didn't want anyone else to love him either? If his partner had to be with a woman, _fine_. But another guy? Someone who wasn't him? _"You think Starsky is in a relationship with a guy?"_

 _"Long-term relationship. Years, Hutch."_

 _"Years? With who?"_

 _"I don't know."_ Huggy shook his head. _"He's older. I think he's kinda high-profile and their relationship isn't exactly on the up-and-up. I've never met him and Starsky ignores my questions when I ask. He dances right around them, pretends he doesn't know what I'm talking about."_ He smiled. _"He's a lot like you in that way. But I will tell you this: Starsky and I go way back; he's my best friend. If you think you're good at keeping secrets, I can guarantee that is a quality he can one-up you on."_

 _"You're saying he lies?"_

 _"I'm saying, that just like the rest of us, he chooses the truths he tells. You'll hurt each other,"_ Huggy warned. _"You're both too subborn, too accustomed to keeping your secrets and surrendering yourself to your bad habits to do anything else."_

Xx

Dinner was peaceful and companionable. Retiring to bed just after returning to Rosie and Al's house both Starsky and Hutch fell asleep swiftly, peaceful and content laying close to one another. For the first time since waking from a coma Hutch didn't dream of the forest. This nightmare was decidedly different than the rest.

 _Sitting at a table in the middle of a dilapidated bar he sipped his drink. His surroundings were not a place he recognized; he hadn't been here before. Instead, it was a melding of his memories. A darkened, ramshackle vision of every bar he had ever been in life._

 _Blood seeping from her head, running down her neck and shoulders and over the patches of dirt clinging to her skin and clothes, Callie Baker stood erect behind the bar, serving drink after drink to a small and unsettling crowd. Hutch recognized the each corpse, their flesh rotting, their bodies misshapen, as they gathered their drinks then scattered, sitting at their respective tables and appraising him in carnivorous manner._

 _One, two, three, four, five, and six, Hutch recognized them all. They were the missing felons, the men he and Starsky had killed to appease Fate._

 _He should have been unsettled to see them, but he wasn't. This wasn't the first time the men had visited him in his dreams. They had reason to be furious, to take him off guard as he once had them and haunt him in his subconscious when he had little power to defend himself. Sometimes they hurt him; sometimes they just threatened and screamed at him. The nightmares were confining; the dead men could reciprocate the violent acts which had led to their deaths and they could give their fury a voice, but, in the end, Hutch always woke up. He may be breathing heavily and shaken but he was always physically unharmed. Because, after all, they were dead and he was alive. It would take more than a nightmare to change that._

 _Looking at the corner of the room, Hutch set his eyes on a crumbling stage as the sweet singing of a song began to reach his ears: "_ _Send me photographs and souvenirs, just remember when a dream appears, you belong to me.*_ _"_

 _Centered on the stage in front of a vintage, rusted, large-headed microphone was Fate. She looked as she always had—at least to Hutch. Dressed in a glittering ball-gown, her swaying body was flowing. Her skin looked composed of TV screen static, eternally moving, sputtering fragments of dark and light which shone forebodingly in smoke filled bar. She was expressionless; the area where her face belonged was a shadowy mass, but Hutch knew her mouth was open because he could hear her sing. Smoky and grinding, her voice traveled through smallness of the bar as she hissed the lyrics of her siren-song that Hutch had heard many times before: "I'll be so alone without you, maybe you'll be lonesome too and blue.*"_

 _He wanted to touch her. To be absorbed into the enormity of her darkness. To be protected from the past, excused from participating in the future. But he knew he wouldn't. To actively seek out her presence was to surrender himself, allowing his body and soul to become lost in her vastness once more. He couldn't do that, not again._

 _"Don't you love this song?" a man asked suddenly._

 _Tearing his gaze from Fate, Hutch looked across the table. He wasn't surprised at who he saw, but he was taken aback by his acceptance of the man's presence. It was as though he had expected to see him at some point. He had been anticipating his subconscious to conjure an image of this man. After all, the man's actions had been haunting his adult life for years, it only made sense that he would eventually return to haunt his dreams, too._

 _"I do," Uncle Kenneth finished with a smile. He looked nothing like Hutch thought he should._

 _Nearly thirty years had passed and Kenneth hadn't aged a day since Hutch remembered seeing him last. He had been a little boy then and Uncle Kenneth the same as he appeared to be now. "It's old-school, but this is my favorite song. I bet you don't remember how much I love Patsy Cline. I bet you don't remember a lot of things."_

 _Fate sang, "Just remember 'til you're home again you belong to me.*"_

 _"I do," Hutch said calmly. "I remember you used to play this record over and over on the turn table in Dad's study when he wasn't home. We listened to it so many times that I think I could still recite it word-for-word."_

 _"You do love old Patsy Cline," Kenneth agreed._

 _"Only because you did," Hutch said. "I loved you too, you know. I idolized you and you destroyed me for it."_

 _"Your father had a conniption each time he found out that I had used that turn-table. He always hated when I touched his things."_

 _"He hated you. You never dared touch anything that belonged to him when he was around. You were afraid of him and what he knew about you, but mother loved you so much that his opinion didn't seem to matter."_

 _"She did." Kenneth grinned. "Still does. The real question is this: How do you feel about me now?"_

 _"It doesn't matter how I feel."_

 _"Oh, but it does," Kenneth assured. "Don't you see? All this trauma, all these horrible things that happened, the wasted time, as you like to put it, all those things started with me but they're going to end with you." Turning his attention to the corpses, he chuckled. "You had to kill someone so you took the lives of these men. But why did you chose them? What makes me different from them?"_

 _"Doesn't matter," Hutch repeated. "It's all over now."_

 _"But it does, because it's not over, not yet. Answer me this: What makes me the same as the men you killed?"_

 _Hutch shook his head. He refused to give a voice to his fear._

 _"Not voicing what you know doesn't make it false. You killed those men because you thought they would act again. You thought that hovering under the radar of local police that they would hurt someone else. That is how I am the same as they are. They died and I am still alive. That is how I am different."_

 _"Not for long," Hutch said. His lips curled into a satisfied smile, the words feeling right. Was that why he had lived? Was he to kill his uncle just as he had these other men?_

 _"You should," Kenneth urged. "You know you should. You could do it, too. What on the earth do you have left to lose? Your past has been exposed and you don't have a career; you barely have any dignity left. Your marriage is a lie. It won't be long before that's gone too and what will you have then, huh? What will you have to hold on to when your final reason for remaining in place is gone? Think of your sister, think of your nephews and all the other boys who reside in Esko. I'm a monster, you know I am. I won't stop, you know that, too. You know me well, Cameron. Too well."_

 _"Cameron's not my name. You took it away from me."_

 _"You took it away from yourself. You and me, we're one in the same. You know that we are."_

 _"I'm nothing like you," Hutch said._

 _"We share the same name now. Deep down, you know that's not all we share. There is a darkness inside of you."_

 _"There's nothing inside of me, not anymore."_

 _"But there is. There's a longing. You recognize me in a way you long to recognize yourself; you know who I am but you long to know who you are. And you could, but first you have to end it. You have to kill me," Kenneth said. "End it, Cameron, for good. Kill me just like you killed all of them."_

Hutch woke, not with a start but by calmly opening his eyes. "I will," he whispered to the silence of the bedroom. His tone sounded manic, even to his own ears, but he was oddly at peace with the words. "I'm going to do it. It's the only way. I don't have a choice."

Sleeping deeply, Starsky lay contently on the other side of the bed. He didn't show any indication of stirring or waking; he remained blissfully unaffected by Hutch's movements as he rose from the bed.

Smoothing his fingertips over the plethora of items which had been abandoned on top the dresser, Hutch rummaged around. To the outside eye, his movements appeared hasty, haphazard, and random, but he knew what he was looking for. He finally knew what he had to do. There were so many promises he couldn't keep, and so many more he now realized he had never intended to. He couldn't be here, not like this. Later, maybe, if he could learn to tell the truth. If he summoned to courage to follow through on what he knew he needed to do.

Frantically searching the small area, one item took him by surprise when he saw it, laying amongst the contents of Starsky's jean pockets, half-hidden beneath his wallet and butted-up against his keyring. Fingers closing over a white-capped prescription bottle, Hutch lifted it. His eyes first squinted then widened as he read the label. It was Xanax, a drug prescribed to Starsky by Dr. Kimberlee Evans, the same psychiatrist he had been required to see after Simon Marcus had been killed.

Hutch didn't know if he should be angry or surprised, sad or indifferent. The pills served as proof of the two things he had suspected about his husband and hadn't had the courage to confirm. First, that Starsky was still seeing a psychologist to work through whatever remaining issues he struggled with, and second, that he wasn't coping with the details of their new life as seamlessly as he presented. Maybe that was where the discordant statements had come from.

Perhaps the calm words of support Starsky had said earlier had originated from Doctor Evans: _I want you to feel safe. Comfortable and confident in the strength of our relationship and marriage trust and confide in me._

Shaking his head in exasperation, Hutch put the bottle down. Starsky's proclamation remained as startling and annoying as it was when he originally said it. And knowing that someone may have coached his husband on what to say and how to say it was somehow worse. There was a time when it seemed as though he and Starsky could talk about anything. And now they spoke of nothing at all.

Expelling a hearty breath, he pursed his lips and braced himself what he knew he had to do. Focusing his attention to the top of the dresser, he grasped Starsky's black Sharpie and returned to the side of the bed. Clenching the cap between his teeth, he pulled the marker away from his face and gently— _carefully_ —grasped Starsky's wrist. He didn't want to wake him; he didn't need to have his plan interrupted or his intentions questioned—as sudden and impulsive as they were. No, if Starsky woke up, if he grasped his hand tightly and pulled him back to bed, then Hutch might have time to think, time to lose his nerve and direction.

 **I'm sorry** , he wrote, sprawling the regretful message across the top of his husband's hand.

Abandoning the permanent marker where he found it, he dressed quickly and quietly in the darkness. Retrieving his wallet, he didn't bother to take anything else; he didn't see the point. He wouldn't need it, not where was going, not with what he was going to do.

Carefully watching him from the corner, Lucky's eyes sparkled with concern; he stood when Hutch made his way to the closed bedroom door and followed close on his heels. The dog made a crafty exit, slipping his slender body out of the slightly ajar door before Hutch could protest.

Closing the door behind them, Hutch sighed in exasperation. "Lucky," he hissed, bending to fondly pet the dog. "I'm sorry, but you can't come." He paused for a moment, taking the opportunity to shower the dog with affection before standing and pointing an authoritative index finger. "Stay," he whispered. "You stay here. This is where you belong."

Lucky didn't hesitate dismissing order. His toenails made a series of dull, tapping noises as he followed the blond to the front door.

Holding the doorknob tightly, Hutch hung his head. "Why are you making this so difficult?" he asked sadly. "You have to stay here. You can't follow me, not where I'm going, not anymore."

Chirping softly, the Dalmatian pawed at the door. It was a bold action, one that the dog knew wasn't allowed as neither Starsky nor Hutch had ever permitted scratching of doors of any kind.

"What are you doing?" Hutch whispered exasperatedly.

Lucky stared back at him, his gleaming eyes accusing, seemingly demanding that Hutch answer the question himself. _I'm not doing anything. What are you doing?_

"I won't take you with me, Lucky," Hutch added. "You have to stay."

Lucky scratched the door once more. Insistent and deliberate, each movement generated more noise than the one before, threatening the uproarious commotion the dog would create if Hutch left the house without him.

"You don't get a choice," Hutch whispered, pulling the Dalmatian away from the door. "Don't you understand? This is for your own good."

But the dog wouldn't be convinced. Looking between the door and Hutch, his eyes sparkled stubbornly and he emitted a deep-chested bark of protest.

"Shhh!" Hutch chastised.

Lucky stared at Hutch momentarily before barking again. Emitting a disgruntled growl, he lunged at the door, scrapping his nails loudly against it before Hutch grasped his collar and abruptly pulled him away.

"Oh, fine!" Hutch hissed. Holding the dog's collar tightly with one hand, he opened the door with the other and pulled him out of the house. "But if you end up have a terrible time, don't act like I didn't warn you about how it was going to be."

Lucky calmed as his paws made contact with the concrete steps. He nodded enthusiastically as Hutch pulled the door shut behind them, seemingly happily agreeing to abide by the deal.

Walking toward his black pick-up truck, Hutch felt Lucky rub his body against his legs in a jubilant manner and he smiled in spite of himself. Though he was conflicted about taking the dog, he was comforted, too. He was assured by the steadfast security of Lucky's happy-go-lucky nature and unconditional love. The dog didn't care about the mistakes or who he should have been. He only wanted to be there. To be included and loved. He had no expectations beyond that; he didn't need to talk about the past or the future; all he cared about was the present.

"This is a terrible idea," Hutch softly warned. "It won't end well, just you wait and see."

But, for the first time in a long time, with Lucky beside him, he was certain of what he needed to do. He was confident in what he would do. And driving away from the Rosie and Al's house, his black truck shrouded by moonlight, he forced himself not to look back.

He was determined to never look back.

 **TBC**

 **Author Note:**

Sorry for the delay in updating. It certainly isn't my intention to become a once-a-month poster but, you know, life happens. I'll try to be better, I promise.

Also, the lines marked with * are not mine. They belong to _Pee Wee King_ _,_ _Chilton Price_ , and _Redd Stewart. My complements to Patsy Cline._


	65. Chapter Sixty-Five

The road was dark and long.

The black tarmac of the highways connecting California to Minnesota seemed to extend indefinitely, through hundreds of miles, across separate states and startlingly different landscapes which led him further away from where he had been and closer to where he was going.

Eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, fixed on the road ahead of them, Hutch neither spoke nor turned on the radio. He didn't feel a need to fill the silence with his own pointless proclamations or someone else's, and Lucky certainly wasn't demanding they converse. Sitting shotgun, he panted in a cheerful manner; his thin, black lips curled upward in a smile as he watched the landscape flyby the passenger-side window. He was the perfect co-pilot; the epitome of an unruffled traveler. Quiet and affable, he was compliant, not emitting so much as a whine of distress since they had left Rosie and Al's home.

Though Lucky's presence necessitated more needs and demanded more stops, they made good time passing through California and Nevada; Hutch wanted to get as far away from Bay City as quickly as he could; they made a handful of diversions at rest stops and gas stations and a detour to a single grocery store for the obvious. It wasn't until they were somewhere in the middle of Utah, that Hutch made the conscious decision to complete their journey at slower pace than when they had begun.

It was just passed one a.m. when he finally decided to stop for the night. He was road-weary, exhausted and sore—punishment for sitting for too many hours, prolonged and still, behind the steering wheel. His chest ached and a tension headache had begun to make its presence known.

Throbbing incessantly, it ran the distance between his left temple and neck, embedding his ear with a sharp, stinging sensation each time he took a deep breath.

He stopped at a twenty-four hour gas station, purchased small bottles of aspirin and over-the-counter sleeping pills, a lighter, and a pack of cigarettes. He took little care in hiding the latter items, stowing them on the dashboard of his pick-up truck for easy access should the mood suddenly strike. Though with the way he was feeling, he doubted he would reach for them anytime soon.

He checked into a tiny motel on the edge of town. The desk clerk was craggy and old, her body and voice ragged, roughened by the years which had passed her by. She was accommodating enough, accepting his identification and credit card with few words and no prying questions.

Settling into their room, Hutch had barely attended to Lucky's needs before ingesting a mixture of pills and laying heavily on the bed. The bed frame was old, the mattress misshapen; they shifted and creaked precariously under his weight, but, eyelids drooping tiredly, he payed the foreboding noise little mind. Nor did he mind when Lucky, his muzzle still damp from an impromptu water bowl, his breath heavy with the smell of dog food, jumped up on the bed and settled next to him.

Hutch turned on the TV just to have some kind of inconsequential noise in the background. To somehow trick his tired mind into thinking he was somewhere else—not sleeping alone with Lucky in a random hotel room. Instead, he was home—not the bedroom at Rosie and Al's or the master he and Starsky had once shared at Venice Place or even at the beach house. No, this was a new place. Safe and small, it was a fictitious house they purchased together, it's presence a testament, a physical reminder, like the sliver wedding bands each man wore, to their commitment, love, and strength. Though he was in a strange hotel room, in his mind he was in this house and Starsky was lying beside him watching late-night TV. With his eyes closed, Lucky's weight on the other side of the bed, and the television audio turned down low it was so easy for Hutch to pretend.

Sleep came quickly to the pair, and when Hutch dreamed he recalled a memory, an odd kind of warning he had been much too young to understand or heed.

 _"I don't want Kenneth around my children," Richard Hutchinson had said. Seated at the head of the dining room table, he rested his fork on his plate, tented his fingertips, and appraised Emily Hutchinson seriously. "Especially my son."_

 _Sitting at the far end of the long table, Emily snorted, her fingertips curling around her short and stout glass. Half filled with a dark, amber liquid, the crystal was imprinted with a series of lines, crisscrossing and intersecting over the thick base. The glasses were heavy, Cameron knew that because of the times his mother had requested he retrieve her one from the liquor cabinet at the far of end of the kitchen. His father had long declared the cabinet off-limits to the children—something his mother knew—but in his absence, during the long days, and sometimes nights, that Richard spent working either at the hospital in Duluth or in the small clinic on the main street of downtown Esko, Emily didn't hesitate to instruct her children to break their father's rules. In fact, there were a lot of things she didn't hesitate doing when her husband wasn't around._

 _"Don't be ridiculous," Emily spat._

 _Forehead wrinkling and lips puckered nervously, Cameron glanced at his twin sister whose expression was the same. They were accustomed to their parents' arguments, still neither child tolerated the conflict well. Their parents' terse words where like daggers, loosely thrown but carefully aimed in order to inflict the most damage. Had they been older the twins may have been able to give different meaning to their parents' brutal words and dismissed them with a forced laugh and a simple explanation of mom and dad don't get along. Eventually, age would bring context to their parents' arguments, providing a painful but indisputable conclusion that their parents could have been much happier had they made the decision to live apart than they would be ever be remaining together. It was a theory each child would think but never dare say out loud._

 _Holding Richard's stubborn gaze with her furious one, Emily sipped her drink, her long arm forming a jagged right angle, her thin elbow resting on her empty plate. Though she sat with them through the duration of their meals, she never ate with the family. In fact, Cameron wasn't sure she actually ate at all. Watching his mother, his gaze focused on the dark lipstick staining the lip of her glass, he found himself holding his breath, desperately hoping that the topic of conversation would be graciously ignored, but anxiously waiting for it to implode._

 _"You never liked my brother," Emily seethed, appraising Richard damningly. "He never was good enough for you. Perfect Richard Hutchinson with his success and degrees and all the other things his father's money allowed him to have so easily. You don't understand struggle and you don't understand my brother. You hate him. You take every opportunity to villainize and degrade his character."_

 _"I think with his choices in behavior, he degrades himself," Richard said evenly._

 _"How dare you speak of him that way?" Emily demanded. "How dare you sit there and—!"_

 _"Dad?" Cameron interrupted, then hesitated. Clenching his hands into tight fists upon his lap, he looked at his sister, Katie, who shook her head. Don't do it, Cam. He could almost hear her say. This doesn't have anything to do with you._

 _"What, son?" Richard asked, his blue eyes shifting to the boy._

 _Lips forming a tiny line, Cameron shrugged. He wanted the conversation to end. He didn't like when his parents argued, the hurtful things they said or the stifling, quiet tension that came after. His father would disappear behind the tall, mahogany door of his home office, and his mother would hide herself in the master bedroom, both would drink too much, seething over yet another inevitable conversation, their wedding vows a seemingly unbreakable promise both longed to retract. If he could just say something—anything—to distract them then maybe the night wouldn't have to end like that. Maybe, if he could just say the right thing, his parents could pretend to like each other, and if they could do that then maybe he and Katie and could pretend they hadn't heard the mean things their parents said to each other, that they didn't know how cruel each of them could be. They could all pretend to be happy—even if it was only for a night._

 _"Go on," Emily said. Her dark brown eyes bore into her son, making him feel smaller than he already was. "You have something to say, then say it. You wanted your father's attention and now you have it."_

 _Cameron bit his lip. He was afraid of his mother. The only thing worse than being ignored by her was having her undivided attention._

 _"Emily," Richard warned. "Watch your tone. You know I won't allow you speak to our children that way."_

 _"Of course you won't," Emily laughed humorlessly. "But you can speak of my brother using what tone and language you chose. You have such high standards for everyone but yourself."_

 _"How I chose?" His father was angry now, Cameron could tell by the way his posture had swiftly changed. Squaring his shoulders and his jaw, Richard's eyes narrowed with disgust. "Your brother has invited every bit of criticism upon himself that he has ever received. Christ, Emily, the way he consorted those with young boys? He was last person to see the Peterson boy alive..."_

 _"Kenneth had nothing to do with that!"_

 _"...The Woolley and Lavin boys, too."_

 _"It wasn't him! Jesus, Richard, sometimes terrible things happen and there is never a good explanation of how or why."_

 _Cameron and Katie stared at one another from across the table, each trying not to flinch, their parents' anger seeming uncontrolled as they gracelessly divulged covert details to a silent audience of two._

 _The children were only slightly aware of the respective disappearances of their schoolmates. The missing boys were a few years older than the twins, closer to ten years-old than five, which left little opportunity or want for the kids to socialize among the same peer groups. One of the boys, Aamon Peterson, was the older brother of Katie's best friend, Amanda, and through that connection they knew more about his disappearance—and the eventual recovery of his remains—than their father would have ever allowed._

 _They knew that Aamon had been taken—kidnapped—one afternoon from his driveway where he was practicing his jump-shot. One moment, the boy and the basketball had been there and the next they were gone. The local police had found the basketball in a thicket leading to the woods. Dirt covered and deflated, it had been poorly concealed under foliage. It was as though someone wanted it to be found, that was what Sheriff Tucker had told Aamon's father in confidence, who had shared the detail with his wife and unknowingly his daughter, who was hiding in the hallway listening in. Amanda had told Cameron and Katie the information the next day. Then, two days later, Aamon's body had been found. Amanda didn't have much information to share after that—except for a small secret she had tearfully whispered to the twins after her brother's funeral._

 _Richard Hutchinson was carefully watching the children from afar as the trio sat, clad in dress-clothes, their tiny bodies swaying back and forth on the swings of the swing set in the Peterson's backyard._

 _"Somebody hit him," Amanda had said. "Took his clothes, too. Why would anybody want to do that?"_

 _Cameron and Katie hadn't been able to answer the terrible question. No one had spoken to them directly about what had taken place and their innocent age left them unable to fathom the horrific truth. But even if Amanda had never spoken to them about her brother, the twins still would have known something was going on. As the weeks passed, two more boys disappeared, and one-after-another their bodies had been found. If the extensive searches for the boys didn't give them any inclination that something was wrong then the abrupt change in atmosphere of the once friendly small town would have._

 _People were terrified for their children, which Cameron figured was the worst kind of fear. It made grown-ups do silly things, like not allow their kids to play in their fenced backyards unsupervised or cancel birthday parties because they were suddenly skeptical of the intentions of the of the parents of their children's peers._

 _The townsfolk were afraid someone but who no one seemed to know. There were rumors, however, snippets of speculation and paranoia had taken over the township._

 _"It was him," Richard insisted, his deep voice full of disdain. "You know it was; the whole town knows that it was your brother! I refuse to allow you to defend him and I forbid him to be around our son!"_

 _"Fuck this tiny town!" Emily shrieked, pounding her fists with such force that the dinnerware clanked and the table shook. "And fuck you, too!"_

Hutch woke suddenly, startled by his mother's anger in his dream coupled with the sound of someone pounding on the exterior of the motel room door.

"Check-out is in a half hour!" a man's voice bellowed abruptly. His footsteps sounded hollow as he moved through the hallway, stopping only to allow his fists to pound on another room a few doors down as he thundered the same gruff warning.

Lucky emitted a low, warning bark and Hutch rubbed sleepily at his eyes. "Oh, quit," he groaned, his voice gritty and tired. He was unsure if the words were directed at the man or the Dalmatian. "This is sure some rickety place you picked for us to spend the night, pal. It seems like we just got here and they're already kicking us out."

Sitting up, he hung his legs over the side of the bed, and rested his face in the palms of his hands. The night done nothing to calm his headache, and the dream, he suspected, had only made the pain worse. He always dreamed in memories when he traveled to his childhood home; it was one of the reasons why he hated returning to the Midwest—and, perhaps, what had made him so hesitant to allow Starsky to accompany him.

Prior to Fate, it wasn't option Hutch had allowed himself to consider—not that the opportunity had presented itself a lot. The life he had known in the Midwest was separate from the one he had built on the West Coast. He had been protective, obstinate and insistent that the two never be allowed to infringe upon the other. And now, even after Fate, after all the things Starsky discovered and now knew, Hutch's determination to separate the past and present had remained the same, because Starsky knew a lot but he didn't know everything.

There were details which still lingered, horrible events and gruesome discoveries that had shocked the tiny township of Esko and destroyed the already precarious foundation of the Hutchinson family. Hutch hadn't been the only little boy who disappeared the summer of 1989. He had merely been the only one who had survived. And Hutch didn't know how to talk about that—he didn't even want to think about it. There were too many correlations to be made, too many bothersome details to be considered, and he remained intent on ignoring them all.

But it seemed his subconscious had different plans—as it always did when he returned to his hometown. Unavoidable and usually laced with fictitious worry, bad dreams were one thing, but memories were something else entirely. They were impossible to contend with or ignore. It always seemed as though, after being ignored for so long, his subconscious was harnessing the opportunity to whisper: _I remember everything you want to forget. I remember all the things you have spent all these years pretending that you don't._

The dreams haunted him, taunting with details he didn't want to think about. They left him agonizing over relationships his uncle's actions had stripped away, and still smarting from his mother's eternal, spiteful hatred. Though his mother had always been cruel, there was a time when his father had given his love and attention freely. A time when the future hadn't yet been impact by the past. When his father's fierce protectiveness had been born from love rather than fear. There was a time when Richard had been hopeful for both of his children's futures, when his actions towards his son weren't weighted by his brother-in-law's mistakes.

Xx

The second day on the road seemed significantly worse than the first.

Dark clouds had settled over the highway, hanging forebodingly and saturating their path with a steady downpour of rain. Slowly sipping a terrible cup of gas station coffee, Hutch chomped nervously on a piece of gum. His headache had waned but uneasiness had begun to creep in, haunting him with quick moments of uncertainty.

What was he doing? Could he really follow through on what he intended to do? And what would Starsky think—what would he feel or do—once it was all over? What was his husband thinking and doing now that a day had passed since he found the apology written in black ink across his hand?

Though his farewell to Starsky was vague, he made no effort to disguise his whereabouts or cover his tracks; he used his credit card for everything he and Lucky required during the duration of their travels. It wasn't a lot but it was something. If, once he discovered Hutch had left, Starsky had the wherewithal to check their online statements each transaction would be a hint, a piece of a puzzle of where Hutch was headed. It wasn't much in comparison to a proper explanation, a letter or a phone call, a quick: _Hey, this is where I'm going. Don't worry, I'm fine. I love you and I'll call you when I get there_ —Hutch knew that—but at least it was better than a two word message written in Sharpie in the middle of the night.

The transactions where tangible; they were proof of where he had been; if Starsky was smart—and Hutch knew he was—he wouldn't need to track Hutch's credit card activity all the way to Esko to know where he was going. His only hope was that Starsky wouldn't follow him—not where he was going, not this time.

Hutch took the longest route to his hometown that he could. Bypassing Colorado and Kansas, he went north. Entering Wyoming he made the first of a series of planned sporadic stops. Detouring at an ATM in Casper, he withdrew a hefty cash advance on his credit card. He didn't mind having his whereabouts tracked via purchases, however, there were some impending ones he didn't need anyone to be aware of—at least not yet. Ferreting the cash away in his wallet, he didn't reach for it again until South Dakota, when he made his second planned, sporadic stop at a sporting goods store at Sioux Falls. It was a small, unaffiliated business of the mom-and-pop variety; the kind of place that, judging by outward appearances, didn't seem to be keeping up with the non-vital technology, specifically security cameras. He purchased a serrated hunting knife and, on a whim, a baseball hat. Dark and unassuming, it was something he could hide behind, something he could wear without feeling like he could be readily recognized or seen.

Heavy and short-handled, the knife was nasty looking, its blade lined with lines of sharp, jagged teeth. He thought about buying a gun, but didn't want to complete the background check required to obtain one; it was a particular piece of incriminating evidence that he didn't want Starsky—or anyone else—to be privy to. A knife was better, more easily obtained, albeit messier to use. It was a weapon that demanded close proximity and a steal nerve to utilize. It was a personal way to take someone's life, and after everything he had done, Hutch reasoned that his uncle's impending death demanded no less.

Shoving the knife in a paper bag, he hid it next to the illicit leather-bound journal in the gearbox under his pick-up truck seat. The hat he placed on his head, then surveying his rumpled outfit with a frown, he wondered if he should have purchased a change of clothes as well. He hadn't changed since leaving Bay City; it wouldn't do him any good to show up in Esko looking disheveled. It would give reason for people to notice him, to pay him much more heed than he knew they already would. After all, he was his father's son and his uncle's nephew and the township was very small; if by some miracle any of the members of the community hadn't heard of his uncle they were sure to have known of his father.

The Hutchinson name was prominent and Richard Hutchinson had been very successful; there was little likelihood that Hutch could return home to without capturing the attention of someone. With his own disjointed history—the old rumors and whispers the townsfolk had attached to his name—and his uncle's release still nearly two weeks away, Hutch couldn't risk the wrong kind of attention. He needed to look normal, clean-cut and mentally stable. Small towns had big ears and loud voices; he couldn't risk the things people would say if he showed up on a whim appearing as tired and unkempt as he suddenly felt.

"You hungry?" he asked Lucky as he slipped back into the driver's seat. "We should probably stop somewhere for gas before we get back on the highway." Lips forming a straight line, he looked in-between the near empty parking lot and the dog. "We're not far from Minnesota now," he added softly, his stomach fluttering with nerves.

He had enjoyed the affable silence, however, now he was finding it was allowing him too much time to think. The presence of the knife didn't help matters. Though hidden away from prying eyes, he knew it was there and what he intended to do with it.

"This is the last stop before we cross the state line," Hutch said. "This is the last chance to change your mind and turn around, because once we do it's a done deal. Oh, sure, we have another day of driving ahead of us. We'll stop somewhere for the night, Mankato or St. Paul, buy some clean clothes, take a hot shower, and get some real rest." He looked seriously at Lucky who nodded fondly in return. "But once we're in Minnesota the decision is made; we'll have to go all the way with this thing."

He didn't know why he was being so inflexible. Why entering the state he had been born in had become such a fixed part of the plan. Maybe if he would have thought about it more he would have realized that there were plenty of moments—passed and upcoming—that would allow him the opportunity to change his mind. But he didn't think about it because he didn't want to, because he wanted closure above all else, and one way or another, he wanted his uncle to die.

Xx

They stopped in St. Paul, not to obtain clothes and take an evening to shower and rest like Hutch originally planned but because he just couldn't tolerate driving any further.

Head throbbing and body aching, he barely had the energy to obtain a hotel room and attend to Lucky's needs before collapsing on the bed.

Listening to the Dalmatian eagerly lap up the plate of food he had put down, Hutch reached for the TV remote and pressed the power button. The flat screen came to life, its brightness mixing with the sun shining through the window. He thought about getting up to pull the shades but didn't have the energy to move. He clenched the remote in his hand, intent on changing the channel and increasing the volume from the whisper of sound emerging from the speakers, but feeling the bed shift slightly and the mattress dip as Lucky jumped upon it and settled in next to him, Hutch closed his eyes and gave into the pull of sleep.

Perhaps it was his subconscious trying to deter him from following through on what he intended to do or perhaps, worn-out from another long day, he was feeling particularity out-of-sorts. At first, his dreams were frightening, convoluted and confused images of Fate and Starsky, the things they had done together and those it seemed now they never intended to. A haunting mixture of memory and make-believe as his unconscious brain struggled to either understand his past or prepare him for difficulty of the future.

He woke later to a darkened hotel room, a muted TV set, and the sound of a telephone ringing incessantly. Blinking blearily, he sat up, resting his weight on one elbow as he pinched the bridge of his nose with his opposite hand. His breaths were punctuated by the throbbing of his head which somehow seemed to be intensified by the aroma of the small, claustrophobic hotel room.

Was there a sour, rancid odor permeating the space or was his sensitivity to the slight aromas something his headache had awoken?

He became nauseated as the phone rang on, the sound of it reverberating through his skull, increasing the pounding of his head and making him sicker than he already was.

Who on earth was calling him? How did anyone know he was there? Neither question seemed as important as ceasing the incessant sound. Closing his eyes, he groaned, and reached for the phone.

"What?" he demanded quietly. Pressing the phone against his ear, he held it in a white-knuckle grip. It wasn't until he asked the question that he realized he wasn't expecting an acceptable response. No one knew he was here. Odds were it was the front desk regarding something infinitesimal and inane, or it the call had been misrouted and intended for someone else.

"Oh, thank God!" Lucas Huntley exclaimed.

"Luke?"

"Do you have any idea how many times I've tried to call you? Do you have any idea how worried we've all been? How worried _I've_ been? Christ, pal, I'm sorry is not a sufficient farewell, no matter whose hand you chose to write it on. It isn't a reasonable explanation either."

"How did you find me?" Hutch groaned.

"How did I find you?" Huntley repeated exasperatedly. "Is that really the first question you ask me?" Pausing, he whispered something under his breath that Hutch couldn't hear. "Lucky is missing," he added a moment later. "You better have him."

"I have him," Hutch admitted, feeling increasingly strange. He was unsure if it was the residual soreness of his body coupled with the incessant pounding of his head or the sudden sound of Lucas Huntley's familiar and paternal voice that was making him feel odd. And then there were the questions, rising from his hazy and feverish mind to weigh heavily on his heart. How did Huntley know where to find him? How did he know what hotel in what city to call?

Hutch had left behind a trail of credit card charges—a way for Starsky to track him if need be—but he hadn't anticipated that the information would be used in order contact him. This didn't bode well for the future. It was bound to complicate his plans.

"I tried to leave Lucky at Rosie and Al's," Hutch admitted. "He didn't go for it."

"Did you stop to think that maybe he was trying to make you stay?" Huntley asked. "What the hell do you think you're doing crashing in a shitty motel in St. Paul, of all-fucking-places? I asked you to tell me if you planning on heading that way. I told you that I was willing to come with you..."

"How did you find me, Luke?"

"...Starsky said the same damn thing to you. How times do the people around you have to tell you the same thing before you believe it? The thing with your uncle is rough, I get that, pal. And Starsky? Well, he gets that, too. You don't have to pretend with us."

"I'm not pretending."

"Bull-shit you're not."

"I'm not."

"Okay," Huntley said, his tone evening affably. "Prove to me that you're not. I'm gonna ask you a question and I want you to give me an honest answer."

"Fine."

"What are you doing?"

"Literally?" Forcing a hollow laugh, Hutch purposely avoided the seriousness of the question. "Lying down. I was sleeping before some asshole woke me up."

"Oh, I'm the asshole? You leave your family high-and-dry and I'm the one who needs to check his behavior?" Huntley asked warmly. "How are you feeling, pal? You don't sound good. Terrible, in fact."

"Shitty," Hutch confessed. "I... too much driving. I may have overdone it a little."

"I'll say. You're still healing. Got to take it easy, give yourself time. You sound tired."

"I am tired." Hutch closed his eyes, trying to calm his headache and soothe the nausea building in his stomach. "Sick," he added, barely comprehending he had done so. He knew it wasn't in his best interest to be admitting such things. Not now, not with what he had planned. Maybe later he could be honest about how terrible and alone he felt, and perhaps staring at both Lucas Huntley and Starsky through a transparent plexiglass partition in a prison's visiting quarters he finally would. They would send him to prison for what he was planning to do—that was if he summoned the courage to face the consequences after it was done. And as his mother had so aptly summarized he had never been any good at that.

Years ago, he had avoided setting foot on the Simon Marcus Compound because he was afraid of what he had done to Starsky and what he would find. Months later he had sought respite in darkness of the bunker on the same property because he couldn't find the courage to accept the consequences his mistakes—what his avoidance and lies had cost Starsky or himself. And years after embracing Fate, Hutch had been intent on dying for the same reason but somehow that hadn't worked out because as Michael Starsky had said he had it wasn't his time. He still had things to do, people to protect—a message Hutch hadn't truly understood at the time whose meaning seemed so clear now. He was supposed to prevent his uncle from hurting anyone else.

"Oh, I can tell that," Huntley said. "This is why your doctors are still on you to take it easy. Do you have any idea the complications you could be inviting upon yourself? Driving nearly cross-country alone, at this point in your recovery, is stupid, Hutch."

"I know."

"What is it that's bugging you? Headache? Stomach ache?"

"A little of both."

"Are you throwing up?"

"No."

"How bad is the pain? Do you need to take a trip to the ER?"

"No. I'm just..." Hutch hesitated. Huntley had been such a trusted confidant over the years, loving, understanding, comforting; he would do anything Hutch requested of him. He would come if he asked; Hutch knew the older man was only waiting for him to say the words.

 _Just say the words, pal,_ that was what Huntley had told him once before in a situation not so different from this one. _I can jump on a plane and be there before the service if you need me to be._ Pacing the confines of his lavish hotel room, anticipating his father's burial the next afternoon, Hutch had declined the request.

Extending his hand and burrowing his fingertips into Lucky's short fur, Hutch stared up at stained ceiling of motel room of a Super 8 and did the same. "I'll be fine," he said. "I'm going to sleep it off. I'll be okay."

"Okay," Huntley said, unconvinced. "I worry about you, you know. You haven't really been yourself since you woke up from a coma. It's like something terrible is building deep inside of you and any minute you're gonna explode and do something stupid."

"I said I'll be fine, Luke."

"Sure, you will," Huntley sighed. "That's why you left home, snuck out in the middle of the night without bothering to tell your husband where you're headed or why. That's why you're sitting in some crappy motel room, feeling like shit, with only your memories and dog to keep you company."

"The room actually isn't all that bad."

"It's a Super 8," Huntley laughed. "How _good_ could it _really_ be?"

"It's clean." For a fleeting moment Hutch smiled, then frowned. His headache was intensifying, rolling from one side of his head to the other either each shift of the mattress as Lucky fidgeted at the foot of the bed. The bed was terrible and the room fixtures could use an update but at such short notice it was better than nothing. "It does the job."

"Hmm. What's the plan once you reach Esko?"

"No plan."

"Did you call your sister and let her know you're gonna be in town?"

"No."

"Don't tell me you called your _mother_."

"Of course not."

"So where are you and Lucky staying when you get there? You planning on crashing with family or—oh, wait a second, that's right, mister-always-has-a-plan didn't make one for this trip."

"I don't know where we're going to land just yet."

"You're gonna be there for a while, right? It's small town and with Lucky you're not alone. The smart thing would be to make arrangements in advance, pal."

"I'll figure something out."

"I know you will. Promise me something?"

"Anything."

"Don't get back on the road until you feel better. If you even feel close to how sick you sound then you're liable to get into an accident. You have time to waste. Your uncle isn't being released for another twelve days."

"It's fine. I-I'll be fine."

Inhaling a deep breath, Huntley held it, then expelled it in a single hearty breath. When he spoke again, Hutch was taken aback by how afraid he sounded. "Just promise me, you'll park it, okay? Take a second for your body to feel better and then when that happens take a deep breath and get your head together. Remember, how you feel right now will change. Like I said, you still have time to figure all this shit out. I love you. You know that, right?"

"Of course."

"And Starsky, he loves you, too."

"Luke?" Hutch asked reticently. He was uncertain he wanted an answer to a question he knew he had to ask. "If you know where I am, if you guys are using my credit card charges to track me, then why didn't Starsky call me? Why did you call?"

"Just sit tight until you feel better."

And as Huntley avoided answering the question and refused to play along, Hutch felt a rush of devastation. He couldn't help but wonder if Starsky's lack of contact—his decision not to call— was a silent declaration that he was finished playing along, too.

"I really am sorry," Hutch whispered thickly. He reminded himself that it was just as well—this was a journey he was taking alone for a reason—but he couldn't help the tears gathering in his eyes or the sudden, fervent aching of his heart. "You see Starsky, you tell him that."

"Oh, pal," Huntley sighed regretfully. "Believe me, he got that message loud and clear."

TBC


	66. Chapter Sixty-Six

Hutch began vomiting in the early hours of the morning.

Bile emerged from the confines of his stomach, rushing up his esophagus at a maddening, unstoppable pace seemingly just to contradict the one truth he had told Lucas Huntley. Bolting to the bathroom, he barely had time to make it to the toilet before the liquid was in his mouth, a terrible mixture of sleeping pills and coffee, water and aspirin. He hadn't been able to force himself to eat any food; the pain in his head and the churning of his stomach hadn't allowed it, something he was paying dearly for now as he clenched the sides of the toilet, gasping, gagging, and groaning, his stomach rolling in an endless series of dry heaves.

The violent motion awoke a pain in his chest; pulsating and burning, it consumed him a little more with each sputtering breath. Black dots danced in his line of vision, teasing him with the numbness unconsciousness would provide. He wanted nothing more than to pass out, but he forced himself not to give into the allure. Losing consciousness was a bad idea. Terrible things happened when people passed out in bathrooms; there were too many hard surfaces which promised inconvenient injuries—or worse—if his body went slack.

Kneeling on shaking, unsteady knees, he fought to hang on to each sliver of consciousness he could. He was sweat-covered and panting by the time his heaving subsided, diluting to an occasional threatening gag. Shifting his weight, he slid off his knees, gracelessly moving to sit with his back resting heavily against the wall.

Brows knitted with worry, Lucky sat in the doorway, carefully watching his every move.

"It's okay," Hutch assured, his voice gruff but weak. Blinking exhaustedly, he wiped at the moisture clinging to his face.

The Dalmatian's attention didn't wane. _Is it?_ He appeared to be asking, his brown eyes set on Hutch's hands.

Following Lucky's gaze, Hutch stared his hands. "Oh, shit," he whispered finding wet streaks of smeared blood clinging to his palms, extending to his fingertips. "Please tell me that came from my nose."

He knew it didn't matter if the blood was from his nose or his mouth. It could be from his chest either way. And either way, he had puked until he bled and bleeding was never a good sign of anything.

Closing his eyes, he focused on the feeling of the wall against his back. It was hard and cold—despite the heat clinging to his clammy skin. Sometime between falling asleep and his stomach struggling to purge itself, he had developed a fever, the discomfort of which had demanded he sporadically strip himself of everything but his boxer shorts; the pounding in his head had graduated into a pulverizing beat; and thanks to his bout of violent sickness, his chest cavity felt overextended, tender, and bruised.

Focusing on the feeling of the wall, he struggled to maintain even breaths all the while wondering how it was possible he was still breathing. How was it possible he was still conscious—that he was still alive—with all this pain?

 _How bad is the pain?_ Huntley had asked. _Do you need a trip to the ER?_

"That's exactly where I'd be going if..." Hutch laughed dully, a futile effort to ignore the danger of his troubling situation. "…If Starsky were here."

He wouldn't be on the floor if Starsky were here, either. His husband would have hoisted him up the second his knees gave out, held him tight and close to his chest. Though he didn't want to admit it, Hutch longed to take respite in in Starsky's proximity now. He wanted to be comforted by the warmth of his body, calmed by the steady, rhythmic beating of his heart.

"He..." Hutch mumbled, his throat straining and voice taxed as he felt close to tears. He was sick and alone in foreign surroundings—a predicament he had invited upon himself. "He wouldn't take no for an answer, and I wouldn't have a choice."

But Starsky wasn't there because Hutch hadn't given him a choice.

 _I told_ _you that I was willing to come with you,_ Huntley had said. _Starsky_ _said the same damn thing. How times do the people around you have to tell you the same thing before you believe it?_

Hutch didn't know how many times the people who claimed to love him would have to say the words until he believed them. But what did it matter anyway? He had left Bay City with one intention and once he followed through everything would be different than it was now. What was the point of allowing—forcing— himself to become accustomed to how things were if they were destined to drastically change?

And, after all, if Starsky was worried about his whereabouts he certainly wasn't doing anything about it, because he hadn't called—and even Lucas Huntley had done that.

 _Did you really expect him to?_ A little voice in head asked. Quiet and calm, it wasn't threatening in the least. For a moment, Hutch wondered who or what it was, only to realize he already knew. Lying to others came naturally; he had never perfected the art of deceiving himself. _Be honest._

"No," Hutch murmured.

 _Why?_

"Because... I left," Hutch admitted shamefully. "That's his worst fear, you know."

 _I know._

"He's terrified of being abandoned..."

 _So are you._

"... a-and I already left him once."

Inhaling a sharp breath, Hutch titled his head, feeling a surge of terror as he was assaulted with an array of horrific memories he wasn't ready to admit existed.

After being fired he had left Starsky alone, gone to the Marcus Compound and then disappeared. Eventually, Starsky would believe that Fate had lured Hutch into her depths, converted and kept him by being complimentary and kind. What he didn't know is that she had trapped him by being cruel.

He had been gone for months, assumed dead or worse, and during that period of time there were many moments that Hutch had wished that he was. He had wished a number of things as he became haunted, weighted and tortured by all the things he could have and should have done.

He could have turned his SUV around on that dirt road when he had the chance. He should have run when the wind had blown, drawing his attention towards the mouth of the bunker Starsky had been tortured in, luring him closer and closer to a moment he would never be allowed to take back.

Descending into the bunker's darkness, the air had been thick, rotten and frigidly cold. Assessing the decrepit depths, its crumbling walls and the scattered pools of dried blood on the floor, Hutch had been strangely intoxicated, overcome by the peacefulness of the room and its all-encompassing calmness. Above land he had felt nervous, broken and afraid, but down there he felt whole, unaffected by his pain, unburdened by his fear and guilt—his inability to admit the truth of his past. It was the very thing that had begun to fracture his relationship with Starsky, weakened their bond and made them vulnerable to Simon Marcus and Fate. Hutch had been so quick—too quick—to dismiss the bunker's similarity to the one he had been kept in as a child. It was a decision he would come to regret, because soon he would see something in the darkness.

He would see her.

He would speak to and eventually obey her, too. Though, the latter would take time and violent, ferocious convincing. He had been so stubborn at first; obstinate in the face of her powers, belligerent when presented with hints of what she expected him to do—what he would become.

During the time he was considered missing, Fate had been neither complimentary nor kind. She had kept him in eternal darkness; transporting him to a forest, she had chased and hunted him, her grinding laughter echoing around him as he ran throughout the rugged terrain, the land cutting the bottoms of his bare feet, sharp limbs of skeletal trees scratching and slicing his body. When she caught him, she tortured him much like she had Starsky— repeating the brutality he had suffered as a child. And when she had finally allowed him to roam free— liberating him from the forest, the bunker, and the Marcus Compound—she quickly trapped him in a hell of his own making.

Fate was a bitter mistress—a ruthless and jealous one at that. She wanted everything and still it never seemed to be enough. She wanted blood and she demanded Hutch to give it to her. She had broken him because she could; she kept him because he was afraid. She was abusive and vile. Forever withholding the very things that had drawn him to her darkness in the first place, she could numb his anxiety and guilt or intensify it; she could soothe or aggravate him and there was never was any indication which she would chose to do.

He had thought his predicament was bad before Fate allowed him to leave the Marcus Compound; during that time, he hadn't believed things could get any worse. But returning home—and to Starsky—Hutch quickly realized he had been wrong.

He had been so incredibly wrong.

"Starsky forgave me for leaving back then because he needed me," Hutch continued. He had been so angry and afraid, too—and rightfully so—yet he had still forgiven Hutch despite his abrupt departure and in spite of his unsettling, sudden return.

 _You went back to him because you needed him. You needed to be reminded of who you were,_ the voice said.

"Going back was stupid," Hutch whispered. It was only when he had gone back that Fate truly began playing her games. She created impossible situations, playing with Starsky's fragile mental health like he was some toy, to be poked and prodded, pushed, then pulled backwards and pushed again, sending him further and further towards the edge with increasing speed. At the time, Hutch knew—just as Fate did—that there would come a day when nothing would be strong to enough to pull him back, nothing would be able to prevent or break his fall. "It was selfish and self-serving. I should have done what Simon Marcus did. I should have stayed away from Starsky, from everyone. I should have locked myself in that house and just... waited for something to happen. For someone to come to me."

 _But you didn't wait. You went home instead._

"I did," Hutch agreed sadly. "I left and then I went back and Starsky forgave me, but he won't do that again. Back then, he was weak and I was strong and it's not like that now. I'm not that person anymore. I can't be strong because without her I'm _not_ strong. She took that from me."

 _What makes you so certain of that?_

"Because he doesn't need me anymore, and I…I need someone to need me. I need him to need me, to look at me the way once he did when he thought I was brave, capable, and strong. I need to see myself through his eyes because when I look in the mirror I don't recognize myself. I-I'm not a cop anymore, and I don't have her, and I don't know what to do. I-I don't know who I'm supposed to be now that everything has changed so much."

He closed his eyes, overcome by the weight of his oldest secret, the words of which he had once dared to speak out loud. Starsky had thought he had uttered the statement because of Fate, that it her who had influenced Hutch to lose his sense of self, but he didn't know the truth. How could he? The crippling insecurity was a piece of himself that Hutch had ensured remained carefully concealed.

Fervent and furtive, the deep-seated truth was more shameful than scandalous; the crippling conception that had emerged in adolescence. Created by his uncle's reprehensible actions, it was nurtured by his father's fear, substantiated and reinforced by the people who had abandoned him in adulthood. He couldn't be who he was—he couldn't dare tell the truth of what had happened and how it had shaped him—so he needed to be who people perceived him to be.

"Starsky's not here," Hutch whispered thickly. A small but steady tricking of blood was escaping his left nostril, trailing down his chin and falling to eventually dry in streaks on his bare chest. "I left him behind, and now he's not here to tell me who I really am."

Moving to stand beside him, Lucky sniffed the wetness clinging to Hutch's face; then, seemingly dissatisfied with whatever he had found, he groaned wearily and sat down. Resting himself as close as he could to Hutch's extended legs, he craned his head and looked into his eyes.

 _Starsky's not here,_ Hutch imagined the Dalmatian saying. _But I am and so are you. So what are we going to do?_

"I'll get off this floor," Hutch vowed. "Just you wait. I _swear_ I will."

 _I know you will_. Nodding, Lucky laid down, extending his upper body across Hutch's lap. _I'll just wait here in the meantime._

Hutch rested his hands on the dog's back, taking comfort in his proximity. He knew he needed to get up, wash his face, and get it together. He could go back to bed then, spend the night on mattress instead of the cold floor. He knew he couldn't stay where he was; he knew that bad things happened in bathrooms. If he lost consciousness, if this pain never ebbed and he never summoned the energy to pull himself off the floor and he died in this place, what then?

 _I worry about you,_ Huntley had said. _It's like something terrible is building deep inside of you and any minute you're gonna explode and do something stupid._

He struggled to ignore the memory of the words and the very real pain radiating through his body, enveloping him in the stinging agony of defeat. Huntley was right to be worried.

He wasn't the same as he had once been. His body was frail, his constitution was weakened, ravaged and damaged by John Blaine's bullets and the struggle to survive which had come after. The blackness that had engulfed him, the coma where he felt and thought and dreamed about nothing. And the awareness the stifling regret and horror that settled into his head and his heart when finally awoke. Huntley and Starsky had looked so happy, so relieved, and Hutch had felt broken then.

He felt even worse now.

Without Fate he was worthless. Weak and small—just as his mother had always said. Leaving Bay City impulsively, he hadn't made it Esko without getting sick. And now he didn't have the energy to pick himself up off the floor.

What made him think he could do anything?

Still, he knew he needed to get up off the bathroom floor. He had made the decision to leave Bay City and he crossed the Minnesota state line; there was no going back—there would be no going back— so he needed to go forward.

He needed to breathe through the sickness and pain, restore a sense of equilibrium, enough energy and balance to allow himself to stand. If he could make it back to the bed then maybe he could lay down, rest, and wake in the morning feeling better than he did now. Or, if that wasn't an option, he would at least be close to a telephone. He could call Starsky or Huntley, or an ambulance if his symptoms didn't ebb. He didn't want to ask for help any more than he wanted to be sitting on the bathroom floor, but sometimes the pain of reality superseded stubbornness, and, after all, there was Lucky to worry about.

 _You can't call anyone_ , the voice whispered. _You can't ask for help. You're alone in this, you have to be._

"You're right," Hutch whispered to the silent bathroom as his determination to stand up faltered. There was a knife hidden in his pickup truck; it would be the weapon the police would eventually find embedded in his uncle's chest. And then what would townsfolk of Esko think? When he finally gave truth the rumors which had surrounded his name for years. "Nobody else can be involved, especially Starsky. Even if he doesn't want to admit it, I've already hurt him too much."

 _You can't do anything about that now. But you can do what you came to_. _Let go of your guilt; leave the past alone. Don't worry so much, allow the future to unfold. You have time. Close your eyes; rest until you feel better. Nothing has to be done right now._

Exhausted and overwhelmed, his body protesting his recent choices, Hutch heeded the advice; he was too tired to do anything more than what he already was. It wasn't a lot but it was enough— it had to be, at least for now. He wasn't dying— not yet—he was sick. This sickness would pass, or so he hoped; all his feelings would pass, eventually. Right now, he wanted to rest; he wanted to give up, close his eyes and sleep until felt better. Then maybe he would have the strength to get up off the floor and do what he needed to.

Nuzzling his leg, Lucky whined briefly and lifted his paw to gently scratch at Hutch's bare thigh, leaving faint white scratches behind. The streaks slight evidence of the dog's growing worry.

 _Get up, get up, get up_ , his persistent motions seemed to say. _Don't listen to whoever it is you're talking to. You can't stay here. You're sick. This is bad, bad news._

"I'll get up," Hutch softly repeated the vow. "I promise I will. I'll just take my time."

He didn't fight when his eyelids began to droop. Instead, he embraced unconsciousness, the distant images and fleeting safety of the life he once had.

 _His head hurt, his chest ached, and throat felt so swollen that he was sure he was suffocating with each breath. Small body curled into a ball, he laid forlornly on his side, his dull eyes barely following the cartoon characters as they moved around the TV screen._

 _He didn't remember feeling so sick before, then again, it wasn't as though he could recall everything that had happened to him during the duration of his seven years. There were bound to be some things he had forgotten. But he remembered having the stomach flu nearly a year ago. How he had tried so hard not to get sick in bed, how he had failed to do so, and how his mother had refused to help him when he stumbled to his parents'_ _bedside._

 _He remembered absorbing the anger behind her spiteful words; he remembered how he had felt sad and ashamed, as though he had brought the sickness upon himself—as though he had asked to be awoken in the middle of the night by a painful cramping in his stomach and frigid chills. He remembered the pain that shot through his little body as he dissolved into deep-chested, sputtering sobs. And he remembered the warmth of his father's chest, the strength of his shoulder as he gathered him into his arms and gently and quietly cleaned up and soothed him back to sleep._

 _While neither Richard nor Emily Hutchinson would ever be accused of coddling their children, Richard was decidedly better in a crisis. Perhaps it was his career as a doctor that had demanded he hone such skills, or perhaps it was love for his children; either way, his presence was steadfast and comforting when the children were feeling unwell._

 _"_ _D-ad," Cameron whispered, his voice raspy and sharp. The word took effort, leaving a painful tickle lingering in his throat. Pinching his eyes closed, he dissolved into a fit of deep-chested coughs. Tears were streaming down his pink cheeks by the time the spell passed he opened his eyes, feeling someone wipe a cool washcloth over his burning face._

 _"_ _I don't like the sound of that cough," Richard Hutchison said, his strong hands moving methodically as he continued to wipe the washcloth over his son'_ _s cheeks._ _"_ _It's getting awfully deep."_

 _"_ _Why don't you just come out and say it?" Emily Hutchinson spat from the doorway. Lingering in-between the family room and kitchen, she swayed haphazardly, her body moving in time to her slightly slurred words. "It's my fault this happened, that's what you want to say."_

 _"_ _I told you to keep the children inside," Richard said, his tone even but tight. "I told you, that with the forest fire, the air quality was terrible. You refused to do that and now Cameron will be lucky if he doesn't develop bronchitis."_

 _"_ _The boy has a weak constitution. He's small and sickly and weak. He always has been; he always will be."_

 _"_ _Constitution has nothing to do with it," Richard said firmly. "Breathing smoke is especially dangerous for children, I told you that when the fire began. They shouldn't be exerting themselves in it, and they shouldn't be playing outside unattended at all. Christ, Emily, how can you be so apathetic regarding the safety of our children? The mountains are on fire and yet another boy has gone missing—"_

 _"_ _Katie is fine,_ _"_ _Emily said. "She's spent nearly as much time outside as Cameron has. He's the one with the problem. He's the one who couldn't listen when I realized they were out there and told them to come inside."_

 _"_ _He's a child, Emily."_

 _"_ _So that means he gets to disregard authority? Or is it just my instructions you're comfortable with him ignoring? You said it yourself, Richard, the boy got sick because he played outside. Well, that is choice he made completely on his own."_

 _"_ _Dad?_ _"_ _Cameron wheezed, pushing his father's hand away. He needed to do something to stop the argument brewing between his parents. He had done wrong and he needed to make the situation right._

 _"_ _What, son?" Richard asked, his voice and face softening as he shifted his attention to the boy._

 _"_ _I'm sorry."_

 _"_ _It's me you should be apologizing to," Emily scolded. "I'm the one you didn't_ _listen to..._ _"_

 _"_ _Emily," Richard warned._

 _"_ _... I'm the one you'_ _re_ _inconveniencing_ _,_ _"_ _Emily continued vindictively. "Enjoy your father's presence; whine and cry to him because you don't feel well, but just remember I'm the one who has to take care of you when he goes to work. When he's gone I'm the one you're stuck with. You only love him because you're too young to know any better and he's not around very much. But some day, Cameron, you will be old enough to see your father for who he is, and only then will you understand all the things he isn't, and you will hate him for every single one of his faults."_

A sound broke through the strength of the dream. A rumbling the distance, a beep from a keycard being excepted in the lock outside the door, followed by sharp click as the lock disengaged, allowing whomever was on the outside of the room clearance to enter.

"Hello?" a familiar voice asked. It sounded far away as the door snapped shut. "Where are you?"

Feeling rooted on the bathroom floor, Hutch tilted his head drunkenly but couldn't summon the energy to open his eyes. He didn't want to get his hopes up. It couldn't be, so it wasn't. After all, the person speaking to him hadn't even called, his lack of communication, in comparison to Lucas Huntley's, was direct representation of the state of things between them. Hutch had left him behind. There was no possible way he would show up now. His voice was merely a mirage, an image concocted by his feverish mind to soothe how horrible he felt.

Footsteps padded hollowly on the carpet, echoing off the walls as someone made their way to the bathroom door. Lucky stood, leaving Hutch where he sat, his eyes shut, frozen in place and time on the far wall. The Dalmatian emitted a soft, hopeful whine, his fingernails scraping against the tile as he inched toward the doorway.

"Hello?" the voice asked again, sounding closer this time, and chirping enthusiastically, Lucky shot from the room. "Hi, buddy!" the greeted was added, coupled with the sound of something falling in the background, luggage or maybe it was just Lucky bouncing excitedly around. "I'm happy to see you, too. What's going on, huh? Are you here alone?"

Lucky's erupted into a series of worried barks, his footsteps sounding heavy as he ran back to the bathroom.

"What's wrong?" the voice asked, sounding dangerously close as its possessor followed closely on Lucky's heels. "Jesus Christ!"

Finally opening his eyes, he stared at the man who had no reason to follow him but had anyway. A man who had no reason to care about where or how he was doing; a man who had no logical reason to love him anymore, but who Hutch needed more than he could ever properly articulate.

"I left you," Hutch whispered, his voice soft and weak. "But you came anyway."

"Of course I came."

Crouching in front of him, Starsky's grasped Hutch's face with both of his hands; his soft fingertips felt warm as they moved slowly, gently smoothing the skin underneath his swollen and puffy eyes. Had he been crying? Hutch didn't remember if he had. But Starsky's expression, the way his face was contorting in a mixture of worry and relief made him feel as though he had been.

"Did you think that I wouldn't?" Starsky asked. "That I was going to let you just leave?"

Face contorting with concern, he rubbed his hands through Hutch's sweat-soaked hair, down his neck, over his shoulders and chest. His well-practiced fingers were searching for something, evidence of injury, a reasonable explanation for why he had been sitting unconscious on the bathroom floor.

He wasn't going to find anything, Hutch snorted tearfully. Sometimes things just happened. People got sick, were taken, disappeared, or left and there would never be a good reason why.

"What happened?" Starsky asked softly, running the tip of his index finger over the streaks of dried blood on Hutch's chin.

"I should have stayed dead when Blaine shot me," Hutch groaned weakly. "I wanted to but I wasn't allowed. "

"No. Tell me what happened now. Did you fall? Why did your nose start bleeding?"

"I died and my father didn't even want to see me. He could have but he didn't," Hutch paused, the dreamlike memory of his father's concern lingering, leaving him devastated and immune to Starsky's.

Had his father actually been like that once, soft, patient, and loving?

 _Some day you will be old enough to see your father for who he is, and only then will you understand all the things he isn't, and you will hate him for every single one of his faults,_ his mother had said, vindictive words he had been too young to truly comprehend. He understood them now. He saw his father's shortcomings so clearly; he understood all the things he wasn't and hated him every single one of his faults. His father had taught him to run and to lie. To conceal the truth at all costs. To never get too comfortable at any given time.

"There was a time when my father loved me," he added hollowly, his dreams and memories colliding, morphing into an indistinguishable mass of anxiety and grief. He didn't like thinking about this; he had gone to great lengths in his life to pretend that things had been so different than they were.

Wasn't it enough that his mother had always been cruel, that her brother had been a trusted playmate turned predator, but he had to lose the safety and security of his father, too?

The loss had been too deep to understand as a child. It was too profound to consider as an adult. But sitting on the bathroom floor, captive to dreams and memories, sickness and pain, Hutch found he could do nothing else.

"He really, _really_ loved me, you know..."

"He loved you, I'm sure he did. He just had fucked up way of showing it, that's all."

"... but that all ended. My uncle took my father away from me. You didn't know him. You don't know how he was before or what he was like after. Before he loved me and after he couldn't bear to look at me. I became a mess to clean up after." Shaking his head, Hutch's brows furrowed painfully, his breath leaving his chest in a wet, painful snort. "I guess I've become that for you now, too."

Starsky was exasperated—not that Hutch could blame him. Forcing a deep breath, he held it and looked around the small bathroom with calm and competent concentration. It was though he was viewing a crime scene, trying to analyze the scarce details which had been left behind, theorizing about where the issue had started and why it had been allowed to grow into its mammoth size. He was looking for something he wouldn't find—at least not in the bathroom— a palatable explanation for why Hutch had left or maybe the right words to say.

When he finally spoke again his tone was soft but forced. "Enough about all that, talk to me about this, about right now. Tell me what happened and how bad you feel, because from where I'm sitting it doesn't look too good. I don't like what I'm hearing or seeing. Why were you bleeding?"

"I got sick."

"That's obvious. What kind of sick? Bad sick? Do you need to go the hospital?"

"No."

Frowning, Starsky cupped Hutch's neck with one hand and pressed the palm of his other to his husband's moist forehead. "You're burning up. Your skin feels like it's on fire—"

"I won't let you to take me the hospital. I'm not going. I mean it."

"You were _bleeding_."

"I over did it."

"I'm not going to disagree with that."

Looking beyond Starsky, Hutch found Lucky sitting just outside the bathroom doorway. _This is a bad, bad deal_ , the dog's sparkling eyes seemed to say. _But it could have been worse. You're fortunate he bothered to show up after how you left. We both are. He didn't have to come. He didn't have to follow you, but he did._

" _Jesus_ ," Starsky softly swore. "What are you doing here? What were you thinking? Why would you do this?"

"I said I was sorry."

"Oh, I know, kid," Starsky assured, his tone more disappointed than accusing. "I have the proof stained on the back of my hand."

"Then why are you here?" Despite Hutch's fevered state, something about the moment felt wrong. He longed to accept it, to seek safety and comfort in his husband's presence but something was preventing him from doing so. A bothersome incessant feeling of wrongness that often accompanied truths which were most difficult to see or own up to. There was knife hidden in his pickup truck. He was on his way to kill his uncle, an act—a crime—that Starsky could have no part of. "You didn't even call me."

"I didn't call you because I didn't want you to move from where you were," Starsky said matter-of-factly. "I didn't want you know I was coming until I was here."

"You planned this?"

 _Promise me, you'll stay put_ , Huntley had said. _You still have time._ Huntley had called because he knew Starsky couldn't. The request was a trap; Huntley had been feeling him out, buying time until Starsky arrived.

"You and Luke did plan this," Hutch moaned, the picture becoming clear. "That's why he called me; that's why you didn't." He didn't want to cry, but he was tired and overwhelmed, too sick, too ill-equipped to be on his own. Lower lip trembling, tears filled his eyes despite his determination. He had tried his best and just like so many times before it hadn't been good enough. He had been ganged up on and outthought.

"And what would you have done if I had called?"

Hutch shook his head; they both knew the truth. There was no point in verbalizing it. _I would have left,_ he thought shamefully. _I would have run and you knew that._ His face crumbled, displacing a few stray tears, sending them to stream down his cheeks. Is that where they were? With him running away, fleeing like a crazed, wild animal and Starsky following his tracks?

"You can't really blame me for being worried. After all, I did just walk in on this…" Starsky waved his hand in the air absently. "… _situation_ , and you can't tell me that if the roles were reversed and it was me who had run away from you in the middle of the night, and it was you who had to track me down, that when you finally walked into the hotel room after the longest, most agonizing flight of your life, that you would be okay finding me, half naked and bloody, laying on the bathroom floor."

Hutch stared forlornly at the wall.

"The correct answer," Starsky continued, "is no, Starsky, there is absolutely no way I would be okay with that, so I can completely understand why you came here. And given the fact that I am, in fact, laying incapacitated on the bathroom floor, I am damn glad you showed up when you did."

"I don't want to be like this," Hutch admitted, his cheeks streaked with sweat and tears. "You don't understand, I don't know how else to be."

"Like what?" Starsky smiled, seemingly trying to soften the moment. "Sick on the floor of a hotel bathroom?"

Hutch broke at the words. Face crumbling, he pressed his palms to his eye sockets and gave into exhausted sobs. The excursion hurt terribly, encasing his chest in intense jolts of pain. Sputtering and coughing, he fought for breath as his lungs burned in protest and threatened to cease working altogether. He became trapped in a cycle of panic. Choking one sob after another then fighting to chase the spasmodic, convulsive expulsions with gulps of air his body desperately needed. He needed to breathe and had started hyperventilating instead.

"Hey, listen to me," Starsky instructed worriedly. Grasping Hutch's shoulders, he held tight, fighting to maintain his husband's panicked and sporadic gaze. "You need to calm down, okay? Relax, focus on your breath before you hyperventilate and pass out. You really don't want to do that, because if you do then I really will take you to the hospital."

"I... t-thought… you were d-doing that a-anyway."

"Shit," Starsky swore, the word thick and disappointed, barely audible under his breath. He didn't say any more than that, but he didn't let go. He held onto Hutch for several long moments, until his sputtering waned and his breathing calmed.

Hutch forced himself to focus on the feeling of his husband's hands, warm and weighted on his shoulders, holding him steady and grounding him in place until he felt like he could breathe again. And when he finally could, he didn't protest as Starsky removed his hands; he didn't say a word when his husband moved, backing away and pivoting his body to sit across from him on the floor, though the change in proximity felt like a loss. Suddenly, he realized how morose Starsky appeared—or maybe he had looked that way all along, with dark and puffy bags under his eyes, highlighted by the lines of worry etched in his forehead. He was too young to look so old; he had too many things to be joyful about to look so sad, as though he was conceding in an argument that had never taken place.

 _You'll hurt each other_ , Huggy had once said.

 _You're still hurting him_ , the voice in Hutch's head whispered, rising from the quiet to chime in and amplify his guilt. _He could have a good life without you. He still has his career, if you set him free, if you tell him to take off his ring, he could have someone else, too. A woman, a man, maybe even John Blaine_.

Hutch frowned; he didn't want that. Another man or woman, fine; however, John Blaine was vortex, a black hole. He would give Starsky everything he wanted and nothing that he needed.

But what did any of that matter anymore? So much had already changed between them and so much more would once Hutch did what he had planned to.

 _David won't love you the way I do_ , Fate had whispered gleefully in a dream.

 _You don't love me at all,_ Hutch had been quick to insist.

 _I love you, pal_ , Lucas Huntley had made point of saying. It wasn't an abnormal thing for him to say. It was the other part of his declaration that had been odd—something that too focused on himself Hutch hadn't given proper attention to. _And Starsky, he loves you, too._

Assessing him from across the small room, Hutch had a sudden impulse to ask Starsky what he saw when he looked at him. Who he thought he was now that so much had changed. But he didn't; he couldn't work up the nerve. He was afraid of what he was observing, the distance that suddenly seems so wide between them and the hint of devastation in Starsky's blue eyes.

"I need you think about what you want, okay?" Starsky whispered finally, quiet, numb words which seemed to fill up the room. He didn't want to be saying them—Hutch knew that. Normally he wouldn't dare—not under circumstances such as this. Not when Hutch was feeling so unwell, not after walking into the situation how he had. But Hutch also knew that Starsky was tired; he was stressed; and he was a master of asking pressing questions without asking them and talking about things without really speaking specific words. "Think about what kind of life you want, who you want to share it with, and how every choice you make is either going to give you those things or make it impossible for you to have them."

"I'm—"

"I don't want a knee-jerk apology, not right now. I want you to think about it first. I don't like saying this stuff, but I can't live like this forever. I can't keep doing this shitty dance with you. We can't work anything out if you're so intent on running away all the time."

"It's not that simple."

"It's not that complicated. Either you want to work on us or you don't. You either want a life with me or you want to be alone."

"Starsky—"

"No." Starsky raised his hand authoritatively. "This conversation is over, at least for now. You had a rough night; it's time to get up off the floor, get cleaned up, and go back to bed. I want you to sleep until you feel better, and when you finally do that's when I want to think about all the things I just said. And I want you to _really_ think about it, because what you truly want might surprise even you."

Hutch felt numb as Starsky grasped his hands and helped him off the floor. Standing unsteadily, he leaned against the wall, allowing his face to be washed. White and perfectly pressed, the washcloth came away from his face dirty and wrinkled, stained accusingly with his blood. Tossing it into the bathtub, Starsky grabbed remaining washcloth from the sink, wet it with cold water and handed it over without saying a word.

Washcloth clenched in his shaking hands and tethering them together, giving him something to focus on as Hutch allowed Starsky guide him back to the bed.

Long after the covers had been pulled up and he had been safely tucked in, and only after he finally felt the mattress shift as Starsky lay next to him and Lucky settled on the end of the bed, did Hutch finally close his eyes.

And as he drifted in and out of consciousness, he prayed he wouldn't dream.

TBC


	67. Chapter Sixty-Seven

Not dreaming was a hopeless request that was destined not to come true, for as soon as he let go and slipped into deep sleep, Hutch found himself transported backwards once again.

 _The hallway was long, cold, and not nearly as quiet as it should have been._

 _Startled awake by something he couldn't explain, Cameron peeked his head out of his bedroom and looked around. The area was faintly lit—as it always was at this late hour. The dark mahogany floorboards shined pristinely under the active glow of the dim lightbulbs in sconces lining both sides of the walls. The house they occupied was old; however, the sconces were older. Their antique brass was tarnished from age; they been lining the hallway for as long as he could remember, softly diffusing the darkness of the hallway on a cloudy day or after the sun went down, blazing a muted trail for he and his sister to visit one another's bedrooms or safely negotiate a trip to the bathroom._

 _He thought he had awoken to use the bathroom, but standing in place, his small feet rooted in the space between where his bedroom ended and the hallway began, Cameron realized that wasn't why he had woke up at all._

 _On the other end of the hallway, where the space opened up and the corridor curved into a grand staircase leading to the first floor, he could see the light of the chandelier hanging over the home's foyer and he could hear the whispers tricking up from the adjacent study, the space his father used for his home office._

" _...I'm asking for your help, Rich," a man said. Deep and gruff, his voice was familiar, though Cameron couldn't place it._

" _With what?" Richard Hutchinson asked, forcing a soft laugh. "Arresting him?"_

" _Of course not."_

" _Good, because law enforcement is your purview, not mine."_

" _You know what I mean."_

" _I do."_

 _Both men lowered their voices as the conversation continued on, as if they knew they were being overheard or were worried what would happen if they were._

 _Forehead wrinkling, Cameron's eyes narrowed as he tilted his head and concentrated on distinguishing the hushed words. It didn't work; the conversation sounded little more than a muffled whisper. Pursing his lips, he looked between his empty bed and the end of the hallway, debating on what he should do. He could go back to bed, pull the covers over his head and fall back to sleep clutching his worn teddy bear to his chest._

 _Or he could tiptoe to the end of the hallway, past the closed entries to the guest rooms, the bathroom, and Katie's ajar bedroom door, duck down close the floor on the landing where he couldn't be seen through the gaps of the stairwell, and listen._

 _His feet moved before he realized he had made a choice, taking him further from the comfort of his bed and closer to the details of a private conversation he had no business being privy to. He passed the guest rooms and bathroom quickly, quietly and with no problem, but coming upon Katie's room he hesitated abruptly, nearly toppling over in fright. There was a shadow in the doorway. Close to the floor, it was boxy and substantial, unlike anything he could define._

" _Cam," Came the hushed whisper, so soft and petite he almost thought he imagined hearing it. "Cameron!"_

 _He jumped as the shadow moved, seemingly transforming into solid arms extending toward him. He gasped as small hands clenched his ankles and nearly screamed when they pulled, uprooting his balance and sending him tumbling to the floor._

 _Something broke his fall, someone rather, softening his landing to a nearly inaudible thud._

" _Shhh!" Katie chastised, pressing her small index finger over his mouth. "They're gonna hear you."_

 _Pushing her hand away, Cameron frowned. "You scared me!" he whispered accusingly, his voice scratchy and quiet. His fever had broken but his sore throat had remained, taxing his vocal cords and impacting his voice. It wasn't bronchitis as his father had originally feared, rather mild heat exhaustion coupled with a sudden onset of brutal and chronic allergies from the smoke arising from the surrounding mountains and billowing in the sky._

" _I wasn't trying to." Katie smiled, laughter gleaming in her pale blue eyes. "You make it too easy. You're such a scaredy-cat when it get dark."_

" _Am not."_

" _Are too."_

" _Am not," Cameron huffed. Sitting up, he crossed his arms stubbornly. "Why are you on the floor?"_

" _I was listening." Katie pointed at the stairwell. "Daddy's talking to the Sheriff."_

" _How do you know?"_

 _Katie rolled her eyes. "I heard the doorbell and then watched him come in."_

" _Oh. What are they takin' about?"_

" _Those big kids, you know, the ones who are gone, the ones nobody can find."_

" _Like Aamon."_

" _No," Katie said. "Aamon they found, stupid. The other ones."_

" _I'm not stupid," Cameron muttered defensively. "You're stupid."_

" _Shhh! I wanna hear."_

" _... I can't stand it," Richard's voice filtered to their ears. It sounded lightly slurred now, thick with emotion and deep from whatever he had been drinking. "If I have to view— if I have to examine one more boy's body post-mortem I am going to—!"_

" _It's a fine thing you've done for those families, Rich," Sheriff Tucker assured sadly. "And for those boys. I know it doesn't feel like it, but it is. Closing the practice on those nights, volunteering yourself to do their autopsies so that their parents didn't have to endure knowing the bodies of their babies weren't being sent off to a crime lab in God-knows-where to be viewed in their state by God-knows-who, that's a gift at this point."_

" _It's a terrible one."_

" _It's better than nothing. And given how those boys died, it's more than you think. Their families are hurting; they're aching for privacy for themselves while they grieve, for the children they still got and the ones they don't."_

" _Whoever is doing this is a monster."_

" _Ain't nobody going to disagree with you on that."_

" _Jesus, Tucker. Five boys gone now, and out of those five two are still missing. When are you going to arrest him already?"_

" _Rich—"_

" _Don't tell me you can't," Richard growled. "Don't tell me you haven't noticed how much he's changed. My brother-in-law has been acting damn strange since before these boys starting disappearing, odd and paranoid, talking to shadows and himself; he's acting downright culpable the way he keeps odd hours and avoids people."_

" _There's no evidence."_

" _Don't lie to me, not after what I've done for you, not after what I've had to see."_

" _I wouldn't dare," Tucker assured. "Kenneth is a person of interest and he will remain one until we have more to go on—"_

" _He was the last the person who saw any of those boys alive."_

" _Supposedly," Tucker corrected._

" _How much more do you need?"_

" _Unfortunately, coincidences and recently developed odd behavior don't constitute guilt."_

" _What do they constitute?" Richard demanded. "What the hell are we supposed to do until you and your deputy finally see what everyone else already does?"_

 _Sheriff Tucker didn't answer right away. Listening carefully, Cameron nearly protested when Katie grabbed his hand, pulling him off the floor to stand next to her._

" _Come on," she urged. "We don't want to get caught."_

" _Dad's downstairs—"_

" _Mom's not."_

 _He couldn't argue with her logic. They would be lucky to be caught listening in by their father. He would be mad but fair. Their mother wouldn't hold herself to such standards; she hadn't been fair a day in their young lives._

 _Cameron took one last look at the stairwell then allowed his sister to pull him into her bedroom._

" _I would be keepin' my son away from his uncle if I were you," Tucker finally said, the words seeming so much louder than any he had spoken before._

 _Hearing Tucker's answer, Cameron froze in place. He felt like he couldn't breathe. His father's accusations lingered, intermixing with Sheriff Tucker's warning; though he didn't understand most of what they were talking about, he knew enough. Boys were disappearing and people were afraid. Amanda Peterson didn't have a brother anymore and her father and everyone else blamed the same person for his death._

 _Did Tucker think whatever had happened to those boys could happen to him? Did his father?_

" _What is wrong with you?" Katie asked exasperatedly as she turned and tugged in his arm. "Do you want to get caught?"_

" _N-no."_

" _Come on," Katie urged, pulling him toward her bed. "You can sleep with me tonight. You're such a scaredy-cat when it gets dark."_

" _Am not."_

" _Are too."_

" _You're the one who's afraid of the dark," Cameron insisted, knowing that the words were a fib._

 _Katie didn't have a problem with darkness, he was the one who had always been scared. His sister knew that—their whole family did—and he always slept better with her by his side._

 _Even as infants they had reached for each other in their sleep, their respective hands, uncoordinated and tiny, aimlessly searching until finally finding each other._ _There was a comfort in proximity—or at least that was what their father had once said. Their closeness, the intensity of their tight-knit-bond was symptomatic if twins. They had known each other from the very beginning; they had first shared a womb then a crib. They had both cried whenever their parents tried to separate them; one only calming when they could feel and touch the other beside them. They grew up holding hands, learning to stand and walk side-by-side, comforted and bolstered by one another, their existences, wants, and needs somehow interwoven. Their thoughts and worries silently communicated, sometimes with a look or no distinguishing hints at all, and always somehow just understood._

 _Lying next to his sister, Cameron's gaze traveled from one end of the room to the other. Her bedroom wasn't like his. They both were aptly decorated, bursting with toys and moderately clean, but there was something missing from Katie's room that he wouldn't dare accept going without in his own. There was a square lamp sitting on her dresser, like there was on his, which once turned on would emit a warm glow and project cascading pictures on the walls. But Katie wasn't afraid of the dark, so she had no need to turn it on. But even so, there was something be afraid of—Cameron was sure of it._

" _Katie?" His face contorted with worry as he reached for her hand._

" _What?"_

" _Do you... do you think Uncle Ken would hurt anybody?"_

" _I don't know, but Daddy does."_

" _People are scared of him."_

" _Are you?"_

 _Clenching her hand tightly, Cameron shook his head. He wasn't. How could he be? His uncle was a trusted friend, an eager playmate; he had coached Cameron's t-ball team and taught him how to ride a bike without training wheels. He took him to playground, never tired of reading storybooks, watching cartoons, or playing with GI Joes. He was fun, trustworthy, and dependable—or at least he had been until recently._

" _He doesn't play with me anymore," Cameron whispered. He couldn't remember the last time he had seen his uncle. It could have been days, weeks, or months._

" _That's because Daddy says he's changed."_

" _But why?"_

" _I don't know. He's... different, quiet and scary. Remember when we saw him that day at the grocery store? How being around him felt bad?"_

" _You started crying."_

" _Cam-er-on," Katie sighed. "You were the one who cried."_

" _No, I didn't."_

" _Yes, you did. And mom got so mad at you because she thought you were upset over nothing."_

" _She yelled at me in front of everyone."_

" _And you only cried more."_

" _My chest hurt, and I couldn't breathe," Cameron admitted. He didn't know how else to explain how he had felt that day, how to properly articulate how seeing his uncle had filled him with panic, terror, and dread. He only recalled feeling that way about one other thing and he had a nightlight to ease that particular fear._

" _Did he hurt you?" Katie asked._

" _No."_

" _Would he?"_

" _I don't know."_

" _Daddy thinks he could; and you should trust Daddy because I don't trust Uncle Ken, not anymore."_

Xx

The motel room was empty when Hutch awoke.

Pulling himself up to sit in the edge of the bed, he felt better than he had. His headache and fever had gone and the pain in his chest had ebbed to slight throb. He was lightheaded and exhausted and more mentally clear than he had been in a while, but, still, his dreams were hard to dismiss; they felt heavy and the emotions attached to them weighed on his heart.

He always thought about Cameron when he traveled to the Midwest. It was inevitable that he would consider the young boy who was decidedly different from the man he had become; it was painful thing to devote time to— all the could have and should haves that were destined to never come true. A day had changed everything; a moment had changed the course of their entire lives, and it remained, to this day, a moment that Richard Hutchinson had been responsible for.

But had his uncle never taken him, then who would Hutch have become? What would his relationship with his family be like?

Katie, he couldn't think about. As siblings they had always been close. They understood each other; they loved and supported each other unconditionally; they had always been able to say so much without saying a word. Uncle Kenneth hadn't fractured that relationship but Fate eventually had, and that loss was too painful for him analyze now. It was like a piece of him was gone.

His mother probably would have remained the same; although she would have had less reason to despise him, her cruelty was never dependent upon the events that had taken place. She had always been mean, callous and vindictive.

His father, he believed, would have been so much different. He had been different before the event—they all had.

As a man, Hutch had to admit that maybe he understood why his father had changed. The responsibility he must have felt, the guilt and pain that he carried knowing that he failed to keep his son safe, protected from a man whom he had long suspected of devious behavior. In a way, he had done the same. He had failed to keep Starsky safe—first from Simon Marcus and then from himself.

Looking around the small hotel room, Hutch found it had changed since the last time he assessed it. The shades were open but sky was dark, black and speckled with an array of gleaming stars. Time had passed since Starsky arrived; day had come and gone, though if he had lost mere hours or days to his self-inflicted sickness, Hutch wasn't sure.

There was a duffle bag resting atop a small table in the corner. Worn and green, its familiarity refused to be ignored. It was a bag he and Starsky had shared for years; the same one he had taken with him when he returned for his father's funeral; the bag he had brought to the hospital after rescuing Starsky from the bunker in the Marcus Compound, accompanied by a desperate bid for contact that Starsky hadn't been ready to accept.

 _I brought you some clothes._ Hutch closed his eyes; even after all these years, the memory still stung.

Starsky has been angry— hurt. Accusing. _Why are you here? I don't want anything from you._

He should have listened to Starsky then. He should have accepted responsibly, all the anger and blame, and he should have walked. He should have left when it was so clear that Starsky wanted him to. After all, it wasn't anything he hadn't thought about doing before. It was only the timing that was different—the events and pain which would have facilitated the action. If he would have left then it would have been due to his own culpability rather than Starsky's. If he would have left the first time he thought about doing so, it would have been the other way around.

Years ago, standing under the cover of moonlight on the beach near his home, Hutch had made a desperate phone call to his father, and when he had spoken his voice had been tight with tears.

 _This isn't real_ , he had whispered, finally admitting what he suspected his father had known all along. _My whole life is a fucking lie and I don't know what to do._

 _It isn't your fault_ , Richard had said. _None of it is._

 _I love him, dad. I love him so damn much it hurts._

 _Come home, son, and we can work all this out. Everything will be fine but only if you come home. You need to take a break and figure out who you are, what you want._

While Hutch hadn't been ready for that then, he wasn't certain he was ready now.

He knew that his uncle was being paroled and his father was gone. There would be no one there to guide him, to hold him responsible, keeping him from doing what he intended to do. He was alone with the weight of all the things which had already happened and those which were yet to come. He was alone—regardless of what Starsky thought or wanted, or chose to believe.

Rubbing his hands on his face, over his closed eyelids then lower, over the beard that had sprouted, covering his upper lip, cheeks and chin, he considered what his father had said and how unlikely it was that Starsky would eventually request he do the same. He didn't want to think about the correlation or the statement, the soft words Starsky had whispered which at the time had sounded like a plea but now, that he was feeling better, struck him more and more as an ultimatum.

 _Think about what you want. Who you want to share your life with._

Happy people didn't make statements like that, certainly not happily married ones. The only people who were willing to offer that kind of leeway in a relationship where ones who had already considered all their options, how they would feel or what they would do if their partner made a decision to leave. It wasn't an altruistic offer, it was a self-serving one.

After all, what did Starsky really have to lose if Hutch decided to walk? He had his family, his friends, his career and new partner, and an all-too-convenient romantic back-up plan by the name of John Blaine.

Starsky had it all. It was Hutch who had lost everything. It was he who had a hunting knife hidden underneath the seat in his pick-up truck, who was on his way to kill his uncle because he knew that really didn't have anything left to lose.

 _You think it's over between them don't you?_ A voice whispered in the back of his mind, taunting him with the haunting words Margaret Blaine had taken such pleasure in speaking. _It'll never be over, not really._

Oh, Jesus, had she been right?

The thought was too much to bear, too painful to consider, and Hutch found himself thinking of something else. A moment which hadn't made much sense at the time but was understood now. With aching clarity, he realized why it had happened—why John Blaine had said and done what he did.

" _What's the plan for tonight?"_ Starsky had asked.

Looking up from his computer screen, Hutch assessed their surroundings before replying. Dobey's office door was safely shut, the area surrounding them was empty.

Gaze locked on his partner, Starsky stood then lingered, hands planted on his hips, in front of the desk separating them.

" _For you or me?"_ Hutch asked, trying to understand his partner's angle or if he even had one.

" _You, obviously. It's Sunday. I always do the same thing on Sunday evening when we're not knee deep in a case."_

" _Dinner with the folks,"_ Hutch provided, repeating Starsky's simplistic adage for standing once-a-week family dinner with his Aunt Rosie and Uncle Al.

" _Yeah. Any big plans for you?"_

Refocusing his attention in the computer screen, Hutch's fingertips moved proficiently across the keyboard as he resumed typing their report. Things hadn't been the same between them for a while. He had become avoidant and aloof, putting as much distance as could between himself and his partner when they weren't working. The need for space was symptomatic of something, Hutch knew that and he knew Starsky suspected it, too; though, his partner wouldn't dare ask. And Hutch would never bring it up as he struggled with a plethora of difficult feelings brewing beneath the surface, the memory—or lack-there-of— of the night they had spent together and Starsky's subsequent off-putting response: _It doesn't bother me if it doesn't bother you._

That night did bother Hutch, but he was struggling to convince himself otherwise. He had gone to great lengths to ignore it, to act as though it hadn't happened, and aiming for denial he had ended up preoccupied instead.

" _You'll be headed home then?"_ Starsky pressed.

" _I do not have any definite plans."_

" _You could come to dinner with me if you want,"_ Starsky offered hopefully. " _I mean, it's nothing special, but Aunt Rosie is a really good cook. It's been forever since we've hung out off-the-job and they've been asking about you—"_

" _I don't think so."_

" _Oh…"_ Starsky smile faltered. " _Okay then."_ He nodded awkwardly at Hutch's laptop. " _You, uh, you good with details on that arrest?"_

" _Yeah, I don't need you."_

" _Okay."_ Starsky blinked, clearly absorbing Hutch's response as rejection. " _Well, you know where I'll be if you decide you do,"_ he said softly, lifting his arm awkwardly and jetting his thumb at the door. " _I'm going to head out then. I'll see you tomorrow."_

Hutch hung his head as Starsky walked away, hating his haughty demeanor and the lengths he was going to push Starsky away. He didn't know what else to do, how else to protect himself. He was unable to think of a heartening farewell to ease his partner's mood and he was unwilling to ask him to stay.

It was all so complicated now. Awkward. Painful, though Hutch wasn't certain he knew why. Whatever had happened between them in apartment above The Pits, whatever had taken place between them that night, was a moment in time which had long passed; it was over.

So why couldn't he let it go?

Because it wasn't really over— at least not for him. He still had to live with the crippling after-affects, the irrational panic and doubt. That night had awoken something inside of him, agitation and anxiety but also an odd kind of attachment, curiosity, confusion, and, after speaking with Huggy, an odd sense of betrayal. If what Huggy had said was true and Starsky really was dating someone, then why would he dare touch Hutch?

" _Trouble in paradise?"_

Turning around, Hutch found John Blaine assessing him from afar. Leaning against the closed squad room door, his arms were crossed in a satisfied fashion and his eyes were set on Hutch.

" _What?"_

" _You and your partner. Is there a problem between the two of you?"_

" _No."_ Hutch shook his head. The man's sudden appearance was odd and unnerving. Blaine had no reason to seek out a conversation with him; outside of passing each other every so often in Metro's hallways they had barely ever spoke. " _Why would you ask me that?"_

Blaine grinned, pale lips curling over sharp teeth, as he sauntered across the room. Something about his demeanor was off. This wasn't a friendly visit, a concerned friend overhearing bits of a tense conversation and interject themselves to help.

This was something else.

Stomach flipping with nerves, Hutch wanted to tell him to stop walking toward him and turn around; he wanted to tell him to leave. But he couldn't do that.

" _David left here in a hurry,"_ Blaine said, coming to a stop beside Hutch's desk. " _He looked upset."_

" _He wasn't upset."_

" _Are you sure? Because I tried to talk to him in the hallway and he just walked right on by, ignored me completely. Why do you think he would do that?"_

" _Maybe he didn't see you."_

" _Oh, he saw me,"_ Blaine insisted. " _I saw him and, like I said, he looked upset."_

" _He didn't look upset to me."_

" _Maybe you better get eyes checked then. Listen, Hutchinson..."_

" _Hutch."_

" _... You and I don't really know each other that well. Shit, I'm not even sure why someone like would have an interest in law enforcement in the first place."_

" _Someone like me?"_

" _With your bachelor's degree—"_

" _Starsky has a bachelor's degree."_

" _From a community college. You have a master's degree..."_

" _I didn't actually finish the master's."_

" _Are you trying to make me sound like ass?"_

" _No, but if you're going try to intimidate me I thought you might at least want to get your facts right."_

" _You know what I mean. Don't pretend like you don't understand why I would be skeptical of someone like you pursuing this career."_

" _I really don't understand."_

" _Okay,"_ Blaine said, his eyes narrowing with disdain. " _Let me simplify it for you, you didn't want this career; you didn't work for it, you fell into it. It's not your first choice; it's a back-up plan. That being said, I'm sure you can understand why I would be concerned about your commitment and ability to keep your partner safe."_ Uncrossing his arms, he clutched the back of Hutch's chair with one hand and base of his neck with the other. " _Detective Starsky and I go way back. I have known him for years; he means a great deal to me and by relation so does your ability to do your job and your commitment to keeping him safe."_

Goosebumps peppering his skin, Hutch was disgusted by Blaine's proximity; the feeling of his hand, hot, weighted, and unsolicited, upon his bare skin. " _Get your hand off me,"_ he growled, panic clenching his chest.

" _What?"_

" _I said, get your fucking hand off me!"_ Standing abruptly, Hutch forcefully pushed Blaine's hand away as he turned around and took a step backwards. Tripping over the bottom of his office chair, he gasped as Blaine reached out a helping hand and regained his balance just before the older man touched him again. " _Don't!"_ he shouted, taking another step back.

" _Okay,"_ Blaine said his voice soft, calm but forced. Eyes wide, he raised his hands in a surrender and looked Hutch up and down, assessing him like he was an unstable suspect whose volatile behavior demanded they be spoken to gently and simplistically. " _It's okay, kiddo. You warned me, I should have listened."_

It was a terrible way to be looked at by anyone but it was intolerable coming from someone of Blaine's stature. It was inexcusable for either of them to act in such a way—for Blaine go around thinking he was free to touch whoever he please, for Hutch to have such a ferocious response.

Anger surging, Hutch no longer felt afraid, rather embarrassed. A line had been crossed, an invisible one which promised more complications if he didn't slow himself down, if he didn't removed himself from the situation and think calmly and rationally about the situation.

Blaine didn't know about his past or present, about what he had been through, what he'd done or anything he was struggling with now, the re-emerging feelings which had crept up on him at first and now where all-but-threatening to swallow him into their depths.

Blaine didn't know about any of that; he didn't know about anything. But he could, and so could anyone else if Hutch didn't manage his anxiety— as irrational and ungovernable as it had become.

" _I'm sorry,"_ Blaine said sincerely. " _I didn't know that touching was so off-limits for you—"_

" _Man, fuck you!"_ Hutch shouted, the elder man's words awakening his anger and adding to his shame. Storming from the squad room, he barely registered Captain Dobey emerging from his office and calling his name.

They never spoke of that moment after; neither he nor Blaine or Dobey had dared bring it up. It was as though it was somehow understood that it wouldn't have done anyone any good. However, it was curious that Starsky never broached the topic either.

It stood to reason, given the nature of their relationship and Blaine's warning and skepticism—the whole reason for the conversation—that he would have discussed Hutch's behavior with Starsky. There was no reason to hide what happened—at least not for Blaine; the touch had been innocent enough albeit uninvited; it wasn't as though Blaine had actually done anything threatening, outside of his ridiculous warning.

The warning Hutch could forget. Born from love, the angry words had been facilitated by fear; Blaine's statements were not so different from the ones Hutch would eventually spit at Whitley while they searched the city for a missing Starsky who they would find in an alley behind _The Badlander._

But the action, the feeling of Blaine's hand on his neck, how it had been hot and heavy, threatening to paralyze him in place as panic churned his stomach, Hutch had never been able to dismiss. He had startled Blaine with his reaction, but he had startled himself, too.

And eventually, years later when captive to Fate and being allowed to be privy to secrets, it was Starsky's motivations which would startle and hurt, because Hutch finally knew that Starsky had known what had happened that day. Blaine had told him, and he had used the information to his advantage to obtain something he wasn't even sure he really wanted.

Returning the beach house, Hutch had been devastated. Shaking with residual nervousness, anger and fear, he had been inconsolable. He hadn't realized he could still feel violated and threatened by an action that was decidedly not intrusive. He didn't realize that even after all these years, he could still feel this way. He should have been able to dismiss it; he should have been able to reason his anxiety away.

But he couldn't.

Surrounded by bulging cardboard boxes he had yet to unpack since moving back in, physical proof his failed relationship with Abby, he paced the living room. He wanted to call his father; he wanted someone to reassure him, to talk him off the jagged cliff of fierce emotion he had suddenly found himself trapped on.

He had to move from where he was now; he couldn't stay like this. The panic would consume him if he stayed put, leaving a trail of irrational behavior in its wake. He couldn't conduct himself like he had with Blaine. Though one irrational exit was far from good, it wasn't the end of the world. It could be dismissed by a bad day, a bad case, edginess and too little sleep. Any more than one and the negative behavior would become symbolic, a symptom of a much larger problem, and it would systematically strip him of everything he had worked so hard to achieve.

He couldn't tolerate the thought; though Blaine had accused him of not wanting his career enough, he was wrong. Hutch had worked hard to be where he was, and being a detective meant so much more to him than he could ever explain.

He was stuck on a cliff; the only way off was to jump or be pushed and he knew would never jump because he had always been so afraid of losing himself in the darkness below. He couldn't liberate himself from his fear alone—he wasn't strong enough to be brave on his own.

Striding to the kitchen, he reached for his phone and dialed all the digits of his father's phone number except for one. He was so close but something about that last digit wasn't right. He knew he needed to talk to his father but he found himself wanting to talk to someone else. He wanted to talk to Starsky.

Sighing, he abandoned the phone, planted his palms on the countertop, leaned over, hung his head, and sighed again. What was he doing? How could possibly want to talk to the one person who was seemingly responsible for awaking his apprehension in the first place?

It was an odd thing to suddenly desire, considering all he had gone through to keep him at arm's length, but he wanted him. He needed Starsky's solicitous energy to fill the room, rescuing him from the past, the day, and all the terrible things he didn't want to think about.

Then the doorbell rang and somehow everything just changed.

The electronic lock on the motel room door emitted a beep, then clicked. Hutch watched as the door opened and Lucky and Starsky strode through.

"Hey." Starsky smiled, unhooking the Dalmatian from a dark blue leash Hutch didn't recognize. He didn't look that much different than the he had the night he had turned up on the Hutch's doorstep. "You're finally awake."

Lucky was at Hutch's side in a second, nudging his head against his legs and licking his hands, trying to invite a more enthusiastic greeting as Starsky followed at a more causal pace. "How do you feel?" he asked, his blue eyes carefully appraising Hutch.

"Tired," Hutch said numbly.

"That's no surprise." Pressing his palm against Hutch's forehead, Starsky nodded approvingly. "Your fever's finally gone, that's good news. You were pretty out of it for a while; and I know you were dreaming a lot. You kept talking to your sister and—"he paused hesitantly, his smile faltering. "You were so out of it that you kept asking for your dad."

"That's scary," Hutch whispered, slightly scandalized by the disclosure, threatened by the notion he had unconsciously said more to Starsky than he ever intended to.

"You don't know how much. I didn't want to take you to the hospital, but, damn, there were a couple of times I was real close."

"Why didn't you?"

"Because I knew it wasn't what you wanted," Starsky said simply. "And I know you probably believe differently, but I actually spend a lot of time thinking these days."

"Thinking about what you want," Hutch whispered, thickly reiterating Starsky's earlier words.

Shaking his head, Starsky clenched Hutch's shoulders tightly. "No, not me," he said. "I know what I want."

" _Look, man, I care about you,"_ Starsky had said that night. " _Probably more than I should."_ Sitting next to Hutch, he had grasped his forearm and looked deep into his eyes. Hutch had forced himself not to move, not to squirm under the intensity of his partner's attention. " _I think about you all the damn time. I can't get you out of my head, even tonight. I was having dinner with Rosie and Al and all I could think about was you, how you weren't there and how much I wanted you to be."_

That night was the beginning—their real beginning.

Hutch had needed someone and Starsky had come, seemingly appearing out of nowhere to make him feel less alone. And Starsky had been gentle and convincing, seemingly so mindful of retaining some physical space between them and he had said just the right thing. Hutch knew now that he had done all that because that moment had been motivated by the one before. Starsky had known about Hutch's interaction with Blaine and he had never said anything about it.

Hutch had known things, too; he knew what Huggy had told him, that Starsky was essentially "taken", engaging in a relationship with an older man. He knew that Starsky and Blaine could occasionally appear to be a little too close, a wink, a slight gesture that would go unnoticed by most; they spent time together outside of work and occasionally would sneak away while on the clock and meet up for lunch—invitations of which would never be extended to Hutch.

They knew each other; they knew things about each other—they were close. Too close.

The clues had always been there, waiting to be put together to form a picture of the truth—Huggy's previous warning coupled with Blaine's and Starsky's odd attachment to the older man supervising a department he no longer had a place in.

None of that should have mattered—at least not now, post Fate and after all the things Hutch and Starsky had been through, because despite all of it they were still together, in spite of Blaine's warning, his dramatic retelling of the ferocity of Hutch's reaction and his hasty exit, told in hope that Starsky would rupture their partnership. Never one to be predicted or instructed what to do, Starsky's subsequent actions couldn't have been further from what Blaine wanted or advised him to do. But somehow it did matter; it all mattered, and Hutch didn't know what it meant for them then or what it meant now, if the foundation of their relationship had been built on Blaine's disclosure—something Starsky should have never known and only did because of their sordid relationship.

" _Why are you here?"_ Hutch had demanded _._

" _I'm not sure,"_ Starsky admitted.

" _What do you want?"_

" _I want you."_

"I want you," Starsky said, his words mirroring those he had said years ago. His expression was earnest, his voice gentle and soft. There was safety in his presence, comfort and stability. "I need you, and I know you need me, too."

The statement was so simple, familiar and damn-near predictable considering he had said it before, but, to Hutch, it still felt like a revelation, astonishing and bewildering, as extraordinary and essential as ever. And just like that, it was a done deal, just as it had been years ago when Starsky said the words at the beach house.

Hutch needed to be needed; it was the only way he had ever felt strong.

Lower lip trembling, he grasped Starsky's arms, pulling him down to knees before him. He didn't want to cry but there was no stopping the tears as they streamed down his cheeks. He couldn't control his surging relief or pulsating dread. Nothing about the trip was unfolding according to plan.

"I'm sorry," he choked as Starsky held him tight. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry..."

He didn't know specifically what he was apologizing for or how Starsky would interpret the words—what pains and sins he would apply them to—but Hutch couldn't stop himself from saying them because Starsky was there. He had left, run away in the most terrible way, and Starsky had come anyway. It was a fact that changed everything and nothing at the same time.

This was all such a terrible mess. He had a knife hidden in his pick-up truck; he wouldn't be stopped from what he intended to do and Starsky couldn't be involved in any of that.

"I'm sorry... I'm sorry..."

"I know," Starsky whispered, pressing a kiss against the side of his head. "Oh, baby, _I know._ But it's okay, I promise you, it is. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't."

"...I'm sorry..."

Eventually, his tears waned and his apologies stopped, but Starsky remained, his heart beating rhythmically, his arms still holding Hutch protectively against his chest.

 _I'm here, Hutch,_ he had said in Bay City. _I am right by your side in all of this_. And he was, though Hutch hadn't asked him to be.

 _How times do the people around you have to tell you the same thing before you believe it?_ Huntley had asked; Hutch hadn't had an answer at the time. Maybe it was just a fluke of the moment, his exhaustion still getting the best of him as he sought respite in Starsky's resilience, but Hutch felt more inclined to believing the words now.

"I love you," Starsky murmured, the words soft and heavy next to his ear. "God, I love you so damn much it hurts."

And Hutch knew it did. Relationships built on opportunistic moments and half-truths were always destined to cut and wound. It didn't mean they were headed for failure, but aspects of their love would continue to hurt; they always had and always would.

"I'm sorry," he said. Repeating the statement one last time, he suddenly understood that words weren't solely intentioned to soothe the past but to excuse the future. Starsky was here—he had come—and now there were details to work out to prepare them both for arriving in Esko, and more lies to be told in order to conceal the true purpose of the trip and he had promised himself he was finished with all that.

But he wasn't, not yet. Starsky's presence confirmed it.

TBC


	68. Chapter Sixty-Eight

They spent one more night at the hotel in St. Paul.

For the first time since leaving Bay City, Hutch didn't dream. Of course, he didn't sleep either, so subconscious hadn't been given the opportunity to taunt him with suppressed memories. Starsky, however, slept peacefully the whole night through, only waking once in the middle of the night for a quick visit to the bathroom. Rising sluggishly, at first Hutch thought his husband was sleepwalking, but further observation seemed to prove the theory wrong, as after relieving himself Starsky returned promptly to bed.

It was odd, Hutch noted, how quickly and deeply his husband slept. Body resting mere inches from his own, Starsky was peaceful, content. Hutch was covetous of his ease. He couldn't seem to relax, despite Lucky's weight at the foot of the bed and in spite of moving closer to Starsky, resting his head in the crook of his arm and counting the number of his heartbeats, close, solid and steady in his ear. At first, he counted the pulsating rhythm not knowing why but eventually, as the seconds turned to minutes and then hours, he came to realize why he needed the distraction. He was terrified of sleep and dreaming, once more reliving the past and being overheard calling out for his father or sister, or worse being jolted awake by his own screams and sobs.

There were only so many dreams to have—there were only a finite number of fragmented memories of that time period he recalled—the worst of which were still yet to come. He didn't know why it was so important that Starsky not be privy to these particular dreams—especially after hearing Hutch call out to his father and speak to his sister in his previously fevered state. It was self-preservation, he supposed; his most basic of instincts was to protect himself, even if it was from something as mild as marital concern.

There was so much that had happened to him as a child; there was so much he had seen and heard even before he was taken. And after he was found, after he was returned to his family, there were so many other things that had taken place the most of which he didn't know if he could or even wanted to explain.

He and Starsky didn't speak in the morning. Instead, they communicated through sparse touches, facial expressions, physical cues—the quick grasp of a shoulder or nod. It was the calm after a storm; they had both said and done what they had and now there nothing left but silence. In an odd way, it comforting knowing that they didn't need to talk; their feelings where just somehow understood. They were together, both conscious and well in the first time in what seemed like years.

Patience and composure had always been predictable outcomes of arguments in the past. Both qualities came easily to both men the morning after yet another brutal disagreement, long after they both said countless things they both would eventually long to take back. After Hutch pushed and pushed and Starsky responded with an amount of distain and verbally pushed back. But somehow it was always a good thing when that happened. It released their tension; in some odd, imperfect way it made them feel better; it brought them closer together; it reminded them to be gentle with each other—at least for a while.

While their previous discussion was far from their most vicious or destructive, it was one of their worst. Hutch's hysterical tears and Starsky's unwavering constraint where what made the conversation severe, as both reactions were incongruous with past experiences. Of course, Hutch had cried before and Starsky had exercised perfect patience but never quite like that. Never in the company of someone else had Hutch allowed himself to sob with so much unrestraint. It had gone on for what felt like hours. And when he had thought he was done—when his chest was burning, his voice hoarse, his cheeks raw, and he had uttered his final apology—the tears kept coming, seemingly emerging from his tear ducts by their own volition.

First, he cried because he was guilty, pained and horrified by all the things he had invited upon them. What Simon Marcus and Fate had eventually done and the residual guilt over Starsky's once faltering mental health. None of it should have happened; it all seemed so preventable now.

Then, he cried for what was to come, the truth of what he intended—and had—to do.

The truth was hell of a thing, recalcitrant and resolute. No amount of respite lies could provide would ever be enough to soothe the pain born from it. Hutch knew that and he cried because eventually Starsky would know it too. They were existing now on a powder keg, frozen in the midst of a volatile situation, each moment inching them closer and closer to a dangerous explosion. Hutch couldn't go back, so he had to move forward, and he couldn't move forward— he couldn't ease his pain or guilt or even see past it—until his uncle was dead.

It had all started with him, hadn't it?

If Kenneth wouldn't have done what he did, if he would have left Hutch alone, then little Cameron would have grown up into a much different man than Hutch had become. And Starsky wouldn't have gotten hurt; he and Hutch probably wouldn't have known each other, because Hutch would have become someone else. A doctor or a lawyer, something that would have made his father proud. Not a gay police officer stuck in the closet because of his profession and who he had loved, not an ex-cop still somehow lingering in the entry of that same closet, too afraid of the arsenal of secrets he was holding hostage in the small space to take another step and finally come all the way out.

His father had wanted so much for him than this life, but he had died not knowing that Hutch had wanted more for himself, too. What would a life without fear have been like? What would he have been able to become or achieve, if he hadn't grown up feeling as though there was something wrong him and an innate need to hide?

Hutch didn't know, and so he had cried. Mourning everything that was and what would never be. And throughout it all Starsky was patient, solid and strong. He held him long after Hutch's tears ceased, only terminating physical contact for the briefest of moments as he stood, grasped Hutch's hand and gently pulled him to the sit on the bed. Back resting against the headboard, he enveloped Hutch in his arms.

Sandwiched between Lucky and Starsky, his head resting heavily on his husband's chest, Hutch was comforted, placated by their proximity, something he hadn't allowed himself to admit he needed or missed. He watched, through puffy, bloodshot eyes, as Starsky reached out his left hand; he felt the warmth of his fingers as they touched, Starsky' index finger ever-so-slightly moving the silver wedding band wrapped Hutch's fingered back and forth.

 _"What is this?"_ Starsky had prompted, gently repeating Hutch's grounding question from years before. It was meant to be comforting, a quick and certain reminder of the one thing that really mattered.

 _"_ _A ring,_ _"_ Hutch whispered, the raspy word awaking a throb in his chest. It was different hearing the words rather than saying them. It was painful knowing that the tides had shifted so drastically. Though Starsky needed him, it was a different obligation than it had once been. Starsky's want was born from love rather than the stanch necessity of years past.

 _"And what does it mean?"_

 _"It means that I'm not alone."_

 _"What else does it mean?"_

 _"That you love me."_

 _"For how long?"_

 _"Forever."_

 _"Forever,"_ Starsky affirmed.

Absently toying with the ring on his left index finger, Hutch watched from a distance as Starsky walked Lucky to the sparse grass patches surrounding the hotel parking lot. The Dalmatian followed quiet orders, taking care of his business promptly before leading Starsky back to Hutch's side. Tail wagging, Lucky was no longer inclined to allow them to wander far from each other; he insisted upon keeping both of his owners in clear view.

It wasn't until Lucky was safely loaded in the pick-up's backseat that their silence ended.

Looking around the interior of the truck, Hutch was too taken aback by its sudden cleanliness to form any words. It was Starsky who spoke first, his voice quiet and soft as he turned the ignition over, appraising Hutch with guarded eyes. "When I get to the highway," he asked, "what direction am I heading in?"

Mouth agape, Hutch barely registered the question; the interior of his vehicle had been detailed, the carpets vacuumed, the leather seats wiped, and the polyvinyl lining the dashboard and doors dusted and shined by some industrial cleaner—judging by the smell. It was immaculate; the cigarettes he hadn't bothered concealing were gone. Though, that wasn't a big secret—as far as surreptitious information went, the discovery of a lighter and pack of cigarettes was mild. He was an adult, after all; he could smoke if he chose—but somehow it felt as though Starsky had discovered something much worse than an unopened pack of cigarettes. In an odd way, it was threatening, maddening, and infuriating. Starsky had cleaned the vehicle, seemingly disposing of anything he didn't approve of, without waiting for Hutch's explanation or consent.

"Hey," Starsky prompted, squeezing Hutch's thigh.

Hutch inhaled sharply. "You cleaned my truck," he whispered. He hadn't meant to sound accusing any more than he had wanted to voice the fact aloud; he couldn't stop himself or the words as they hung in the air. Starsky had cleaned his truck. Finding the cigarettes, he had disposed of them. What else had he found?

"Of course I cleaned your truck; it was a mess. I know you hate it but that doesn't mean you shouldn't take care of it, especially if you want Al to take in on trade. You're family, so he'd take it no matter what condition it was in, but that doesn't mean you should treat it like it's a trash can in the meantime."

"I'm not trading it in."

"Yeah, I know. You're intent on keeping it, but, trust me, eventually you're going to change your mind. I don't see the point of holding on to something that you seem to hate much as this truck."

"I don't hate it," Hutch contradicted. They both knew it was lie, but he was feeling far too stubborn—vulnerable— to admit the truth.

He shouldn't have been surprised that Starsky cleaned the vehicle. After all, historically it was something he often did when Hutch wasn't feeling well. It was his way of helping, easing a physical or mental ailment when words or proximity wasn't enough—something they both knew was far more beneficial to Starsky than it would ever be to Hutch.

Starsky was a car guy. It was a hobby—obsession—that had been greatly encouraged and cultivated by his uncle over the years. Al had passed his own appreciation for four-wheeled vehicles on to his nephew; he had taught him to respect and take great care in maintaining his vehicles. Hutch's family had never bothered with such lessons, and Starsky had long taken over the upkeep of his vehicles in addition to his own.

"Yeah, okay. Whatever you say." Smiling knowingly, Starsky shifted his hand, resting it on Hutch's knee. "Where are we headed?" he asked as he squeezed.

He was acting too normal—too supportive—to have found anything other than the cigarettes, to have looked in the storage under the seat and discovered the journal or the knife. The cigarettes, though displeasing, were small change. A minor issue amongst mammoth others, there were easy to dismiss and dispose of; their glaring absence a perfect deterrent for the purchase of a replacement pack. Starsky wouldn't bring it up; he knew he didn't have to. The humiliation Hutch felt about having them discovered was enough to keep him from wanting more.

Shaking his head, Hutch stared at his knee and Starsky's hand resting comfortably upon it; he was immediately reminded that he wasn't the only one withholding details of his daily life, conveniently never sharing what he deemed unimportant.

"How are your knees?" he asked.

It was quick shift in conversation that Starsky didn't follow. "My knees?" he repeated, clearly confused.

"You fell a few days ago, didn't you? You had blood on your pant legs the morning I made you breakfast." Grasping Starsky's hand in both of his own, Hutch inspected it closely. The scratches he had seen days prior on Starsky's palms had scabbed over and begun to heel; however, his husband's knuckles were scraped and slightly bruised.

"Oh, yeah," Starsky said. "They're fine, just a few deep scratches, nothing big."

"What happened to your hand?"

"I fell, remember?"

"No. These scrapes are different than the ones you had before."

"Are you keeping a running list of my injuries?" Starsky chuckled.

"No, but it almost looks like you..." Eyes widening, Hutch looked up just in time to see Starsky sheepishly focus his eyes on the windshield. "Were you in a fight?" he demanded.

"Uh…"

"You were!"

"I may have had an altercation," Starsky quietly admitted, pulling his hand out of Hutch's grasp.

"When?" Hutch demanded. "With _who_?"

"That's not really all that important."

"Yes, it is!" Hutch insisted. How could Starsky think it wasn't? If someone had threatened him, if someone had hit him or made him raise a defensive fist, then Hutch wanted to know what had happened; he wanted to know who to hate. "Was it personal or professional?"

"Well, look at you." Starsky grinned. "And here I thought that you were feeling too run down to be protective."

"I'm serious, Starsky. If you were in a fight, if someone hit you, then I want to know who, where, and why."

"And just what do you think you're going to do about it? We're hours and miles away from whoever and whatever went down with me in Bay City days ago."

"So something did happen! Why won't you tell me what it was?"

"Because it's not important."

"To who?"

"It isn't important," Starsky repeated evenly. "It's not nearly as important as the question I asked you. Where are we headed? North or West? West…" He shrugged. "Well, West is home. I know you say you don't have one, but you're wrong. Aunt Rosie, Uncle Al, Lucas Huntley, Keiko, and Huggy, they're all waiting for you come back. They love and miss you. They want to help in whatever way they can."

"I don't need help," Hutch seethed.

"I'm just saying you have people who care about you. When you decided to leave, take Lucky and embark on this impromptu adventure, I wasn't the only one you walked out on. Rosie and Al are worried and don't even get me started on how Lucas Huntley feels about all of this."

Starsky didn't have to say any more; Hutch knew how his mentor felt. Despite his crippling sickness, Huntley's worry had been clear during their short phone conversation. _Do you have any idea how worried we've all been? How worried I've been?_

"He's worried," Hutch admitted, though he wasn't sure why. "Pissed off, really. He always comes off concerned when he's angry; he's never been any good at telling people off, at least not the people he cares about the most. He's too loyal. He didn't act it, but he's mad I left by myself."

"He's not the only one." Starsky nodded at the road beyond the sidewalk lining the parking lot. "You never answered my question. West or North? Home or... not home, at least not anymore."

Pausing momentarily, Hutch tried to imagine what it would be like if he allowed himself to diverge from the plan—his plan, the one which had come to him suddenly in a dream. It hadn't been something he had meticulously planned and seethed upon, waiting for just the right moment to set the unthinkable into motion, rather it was impetuous, impulsive. But that didn't make it any less necessary.

"North," he said.

Starsky looked genuinely surprised and, for the first time, Hutch wondered if he had come not with the intention of joining him but of dragging him back to Bay City. If his sudden appearance was manipulative rather than supportive.

Had Starsky followed him with the sole purpose of taking him back to Bay City? Back to Rosie and Al's house which was surreptitiously placed across the street of John and Margaret Blaine, back to boredom, haunting memories, and the monotony of a life he never wanted and no longer had a place in.

He couldn't go back, not to that; he had to go forward because there was no going back. There were people to protect, measures to be taken in order to insure his uncle would never be allowed to hurt anyone else ever again. Starsky, of all people, should have been able to understand that.

And somehow he did.

"Okay." Inhaling deeply, Starsky looked conflicted as he exhaled a hearty word, "Esko."

"Esko," Hutch repeated firmly.

Setting his gaze on the road beyond the windshield, he concealed his eyes behind dark sunglasses before allowing Starsky an opportunity to see how wide or fearful they were. He ignored his husband's curious stare, and the questions lurking between them that Starsky was trying so hard not to ask: _What's the real purpose of this trip? Why are you suddenly so intent on running toward something you avoided for years?_

Xx

They didn't speak much during the journey— at least to each other. Perusing various radio stations until finally settling on one he liked, Starsky sporadically sang along to rock oldies. Hutch was too preoccupied to share in the activity. Noting the descending numbers on the green highway signs they passed, he found himself counting down first the hours then the minutes and miles until they reached Esko as he brooded, silently plotting his next move.

Starsky's presence didn't change the destination; it didn't change anything—not really. Though Hutch felt better, comforted and bolstered by the man sitting in the driver's seat, that didn't change what he intended to do. It wasn't enough to shake his determination or deter him from his goal; however, it did demand other changes be made.

His uncle wasn't to be released for another five days. Traveling alone, Hutch hadn't made a detailed plan about what he intended to do once he arrived in the tiny township. He hadn't been worried about filling the extra time. He had anticipated staying in Duluth, laying low until his uncle was free and could be apprehended, but Starsky's presence wouldn't allow for such a thing. If he was returning for the reasons Starsky suspected then it would require a genuine visit. He—they—would have to see his family at some point; they would have to spend a significant amount of time in the tiny township he had spent so long avoiding, the very thought of which was almost intolerable.

Head resting against the passenger window, Hutch bit his bottom lip and stifled a groan. He didn't want to do any of that.

"What's on your mind, kid?" Starsky asked as he began sporadically glancing at him. "Is there anything else you want to talk about before we get there? Anything you want me to know?"

"Kid?" Hutch scowled, noting the new nickname for the first time. The endearment itself wasn't new; Starsky had long used it when speaking to a few others, Keiko, Lucky, and, very occasionally, Whitley. It was a moniker reserved for individuals—and animals—younger than them, uttered out of fondness or frustration. Never before had Starsky bothered to refer to Hutch by the label.

"What else am I supposed to call you?" Smiling, there was a hint of laughter in Starsky's eyes. "You said you didn't like baby anymore and any rendition of Kenneth is out."

"Hutch. That's what you've always called me. I don't see any reason why that has to change."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

"You're positive there isn't something else you want to be called."

"I'm positive."

"So Cameron's out too, then?"

Eyes widening under his dark sunglasses, Hutch was aghast. "That's not my name."

"You told Al that it was."

"How do you know what I—?"

"Families talk, Hutch. Rosie and Al, they may as well be my parents, your parents too. If you start saying weird shit they aren't going to keep it to themselves, and if you tell enough different stories, then the truth is bound to catch up with you." Nodding ever-so-slightly, Starsky chewed on his bottom lip. "You know, just because you choose not to tell me certain things that doesn't mean I don't hear them from somebody else."

"Oh, yeah? What kind of things are you hearing from somebody else?"

For a moment, Starsky hesitated, then, inhaling a deep breath, he answered, "You went to Al's lot the afternoon you and Keiko went to the batting cages. You were upset and looking for Lucky; you said some really weird stuff and left in a hurry. Which is funny because when I asked you that night you said that hadn't seen Al."

"Starsky—"

"No." Starsky held up a silencing index finger. "I don't want you to say anything. I want you to listen."

It was then, Hutch knew Starsky was finally playing verbal hardball, backing him into a corner he wouldn't be able to lie himself out of. But, even so, Starsky still managed to keep his tone even, kind but resolute. He was calm and composed, picturesque, in fact—all qualities Hutch was certain he hadn't seen him display before—at least not voluntarily. In professional circumstances, sure, but never in their daily lives. Never when discussing something serious, never in the middle of a fight. He had always been so impulsive, quick to answer and calm, but always loud and passionate with what he wanted—or needed—to express.

But Starsky wasn't like that anymore.

He was patient, careful, mindful and purposeful with his words and actions. Hutch had been aware of how much he had changed but this was the first time he allowed himself to see and consider how much Starsky had changed too.

"You told Al that Cameron was your name, that he had no idea who you really are or what you're capable of," Starsky continued. "And you seem to know some stuff about people that you shouldn't. You know about Luke Huntley's wife, her gambling issues, which Huntley thinks is pretty weird considering that he never told you about any of it. He says he had no reason to, that he wouldn't have confided that to _anyone_ because and I quote, "that's isn't exactly information you want floating around." You were bending over backwards to offer Huggy my help as though you knew had dug himself in deep. And you —"

Hesitating, Starsky pursed his lips and gripped the steering wheel tight; his brows knitted painfully as though he trying his convince himself not to voice the last piece of damning evidence. But Hutch knew he had to, because, eventually, the truth catches up; it can't be denied no matter how shameful or grief inducing.

"And I what?" Hutch prompted sadly. "What else did I do?"

"And," Starsky sighed, forlornly elongating the word. "You talked to Margaret Blaine; you told her that you knew about John and me. Which isn't really that odd of a thing for you to say, right? Because we both know that you knew about him and me before all this crazy shit went down."

"That's true," Hutch whispered.

They both knew that it was, what was the point of denying it now? He closed his eyes, the pain of the memory overwhelming him. He didn't want to talk about this— he didn't want to get into specifics. What was the point of making Starsky feel worse than he already did? Of intensify his guilt and regret with the fine details of how or when the truth had been discovered. It didn't seem to serve a purpose, other than unearthing anguish and sorrow, overbearing emotions neither man could do anything about.

But the memory refused to be silenced; he was helpless to ignore it.

Hutch still remembered what it felt like to have his heart clenched with devastation and dread when he had come upon a strange key hidden in the folds of Starsky's wallet. He had been looking for cash—they had done that from time to time, dug through each other's wallets and borrowed money for one thing or another. It wasn't out of the ordinary or sordid; it was predictable and accepted. It was Hutch's eventual discovery that was astounding and insufferable.

He had been looking for cash and instead found a key.

Shiny, silver, and unassuming, it could have unlocked just about anything—a room, a storage unit, or even a house. But the flat, rectangular gold fob attached to its ring silenced any speculation or rationalizations Hutch could have come up with. An address was engraved on the front and on back the message and initials declared the truth:

 _To DS, All my love—JB_

"How...?" Starsky grimaced. "How did you know" he asked quietly. Clenching the steering wheel, he appeared devastated, overcome by shame and compunction. His frozen expression an undeniable reminder that this wasn't a pleasant topic—for either of them. "Tell me," he urged, his voice low, deep and tight. "When did you find out?"

"Why? There's no in point reliving this, Starsk. It happened; it can't be changed now."

"There is a point! Don't you understand? You have tell me and I have to listen; we have to talk to each other. We have to learn to be honest with each other; we have to be better than we were. I know it's hard; I know you don't want to and I sure don't want to hear it, but tell me anyway."

If Starsky wanted an honest conversation then they would have to pull over. There were nearly there now; if they started this conversation they would be passing by Duluth and in Esko before it could come to a palatable end. If they kept going it would end abruptly, adding to their unease rather than lessening it. And after all, Starsky was right. In order to move forward, they had to talk about the past. It was time to address this particular issue; it couldn't be allowed to linger between the any longer, multiplying indefinitely from its already mammoth size. Hutch couldn't allow Starsky to live with the guilt, to negotiate the residual pain of this particular reoccurring sin, while eventually trying to handle the fallout of what was to come.

"Pull over," Hutch instructed, pointing his index finger on a pullout in the near distance.

Starsky negotiated the pickup into the area Hutch had indicated and shifted it into park. Reaching for the button which would engage the hazard lights, he seemed to think better of the decision, opting instead to turn the vehicle off. Then, taking a deep breath, he unbuckled his seatbelt and shifted in his seat, leaning against the door in a slightly awkward fashion so that he could maintain eye contact with Hutch.

"Tell me," he requested softly, his expression earnest yet bleak. "Please."

"I found your key to the apartment you and Blaine shared," Hutch said, his voice so low and numb that he barely registered repeating the statement. "I didn't go looking for it," he added, not sure why verification of such a thing was important. It was, though, because there had been time when they trusted each other. When neither thought the other capable of the evils to come. "It was long day and we didn't get home until late. We were tired and hungry. You ordered a pizza before jumping in the shower, tossed me your wallet and said you had cash. I didn't go looking for anything," he repeated, the statement even firmer than before. "The key was just there, shoved in the back card slot of your wallet."

Packed full of cards, the leather wallet had already been misshapen, but something about holding it in hands, feeling the odd protrusion of the key and tiny keychain which was shoved deep inside, was curious. Hutch hadn't had any other choice but to look and see what kind of thing would occupy such a strange location.

"It was so weird, you know?" Hutch continued. "Why would you have this key buried in your wallet? I saw the address engraved on the back of the keychain." He paused, scoffing bitterly as residual anger began to creep in. It was all so infuriating, devastating in the most maddening way. "Who does that? Who puts the address of the thing the key will unlock on the stupid keychain for anyone to find? Nothing can stay hidden if you mark it so clearly."

Starsky shook his head—somehow knowing that the question was rhetorical, fueled by bitter anger and long buried pain, rather than genuine confusion and curiosity.

"I found the key and I saw the address, and I thought that whole thing was so damn weird that I just couldn't understand it," Hutch continued. He hadn't intended on fixating on the item, or recalling the address. But he had. It was forever imprinted in his memory, taking residence next to a hundred other moments he wished he couldn't recall. "I didn't go there at first; I hadn't ever intended to, but it just sat on me, you know? I kept wondering who would have given you the key. Why you would you hide it? Why you would keep this… _thing_ that declared someone else's undying love for you so close. It was in your wallet and with you _every day._ Eventually, it became too much, and so I went there."

"When?" Starsky asked.

"And I saw the place that John Blaine had bought for you," Hutch whispered in a haunted tone. He was unaffected by Starsky's question; this particular memory was impervious to outside influence. "And it was _perfect_. It was everything that I knew you would have wanted. It was all the things that I knew I would never be able to give you."

Though it was classified as an apartment, the small building was only composed of two units, standing in a quiet, peaceful neighborhood lined by trees. Natural wood siding lined the exterior, blending perfectly with a tall oak fence distorting the entry to the downstairs apartment. The upstairs unit was assessable by a black, metal staircase, strong, sturdy and tall, which led to a windowless front door. The driveway was an interesting thing; composted of a mote-like structure, it suspended vehicles over a cement drainage canal and was lined with short, timber, safety fencing.

Upon viewing it, from his vantage point across the street, Hutch hadn't known why Blaine had chosen the property—what had led him to purchase such an idyllic piece of the city as a testament of such a clandestine relationship. However time, and eventually Fate, would allow Hutch to glean more information about the apartment's existence than he ever wanted to know. It was because of her that he knew Blaine had purchased the property for Starsky; it had been a grand gesture of sorts, a physical declaration of their love and bond which would never change. The property was a fixed possession in an increasingly unreliable world, trustworthy and dependable; pending ultimate disaster, it would always be there, waiting patiently to provide Starsky respite from the rest of the world—Blaine had made sure of it.

It was because of Fate that Hutch understood that the trauma of being taken from his mother, separated from his younger brother and sent to grow up on the other side of the country, had lingered quietly inside of Starsky, instilling in him a need to run, seek shelter and hide from the seriousness and conflict of his adult relationships. It was because of his tumultuous childhood that he lived his adult life with an underlying fear of being abandoned. He had learned to keep his romantic interests at a distance. To never become too comfortable and always have a backup plan.

Blaine had offered Starsky stability. A place to hide when he wanted to run; a body to hold close and surrender himself to when Hutch —or anyone else—hurt him or pushed him away. The elder man had been the eternal, safe back-up plan. Blaine would never leave his wife—Starsky had always known that—and perhaps that was part of the allure of unconsciously committing himself to someone he knew could never be fully committed in return.

But knowing why someone did something didn't ease the pain of their actions. It didn't erase the mistakes or make the wounds they left behind null-and-void. Hutch didn't want Starsky to feel guilty, but he couldn't ignore his own pain. Still, there was a time when none of this had mattered to him.

 _"There's nothing to fight about,"_ Hutch had once said. _"I don't care that you fucked around with Blaine. It doesn't matter to me; maybe at one point it would have but it doesn't anymore. There's a lot of stuff I hid from you; there were plenty of times I was mean or distant. If I would have been better to you back then, if I would have known how to talk about my secrets or my pain, then maybe you wouldn't have felt the need to run to somebody else when things between us were really hard. I don't care that it happened back then."_

But that was a different time, when what Fate had allowed him to know or understand was minute in comparison to her hold and what she expected from him. It wasn't like anymore. No longer under her controlling spell, Hutch was neither immune nor unaffected by the pain of the truth. He cared; he cared so much more than he wanted to.

Starsky's wallet and the key hidden inside would eventually be lost; both items would become casualties of Starsky's abduction and captivity at the Marcus Compound. They would be found on Brian Blackwell's body, confiscated as evidence and never returned. A twin of his own, Hutch would take great care in replacing the leather wallet, finding an exact replica and insuring the corner of the face was embossed with Starsky's initials. The key to the apartment would also be replaced. Sans incriminating keychain, a new silver key would be hung on its own ring, the dipped metal curves entwined around the dull copper of Starsky's master ring. Purposefully isolated for either easy access or quick removal, it continued to contrast starkly in comparison to the rest of the keys. It could have belonged to nearly anything, but Fate had allowed Hutch to know the truth.

"I'm sorry," Starsky said.

The words sounded so out of place as Hutch stared at the apartment key. Hanging unassumingly on his husband's key ring, it swayed slightly, suspended in air by the spare pick-up truck key shoved in the ignition.

"I'm so sorry that I did any of that," Starsky continued. "It shouldn't have happened. Screwing around with Blaine after we were together was short sided and selfish. I should have thought about it. I should have realized how it would hurt you."

"You can't love someone and never hurt them," Hutch said softly. "You can't always do the right thing or make the right choice. I hurt you too."

"Are you saying that makes us even?"

The question was an interesting prospect. Did their respective choices, the mistakes each had made that had hurt the other, make them even? Did their individual lies cancel each other out? Did Starsky's relationship with Blaine nullify Hutch's kinship with Fate?

Hutch shook his head; he had no intention on embarking on this topic. "I don't know what I'm saying."

Seemingly unsatisfied with the answer, Starsky's eyes glistened warily. "Why do I get the feeling that you really do? You know, there was once a time when you said I could ask you anything."

"So?"

"So, I was just wondering if that offer still stands."

"Is it one you intend to reciprocate?" Aiming for indifferent, Hutch only sounded annoyed.

"Of course. I know I've never really said it out loud but you can ask me anything you want to know."

"Okay," Hutch agreed, his eyes narrowing as they remained frozen on the apartment key. There were so many things he wanted to say; so many horrible, terrible, hurtful things which would begin with acknowledging the key to the secret apartment and with ended in an explosive fight. There would be no coming back from a conversation like that, not now. Not if Hutch gave into his seething anger, the bitter sting in his heart. Starsky, it seemed, was quite proficient at keeping his temper in check. Hutch knew he would be unable to hold himself to the same standard.

"Never mind," he said quietly, despite his grinding emotions.

"You're sure you don't want to ask me anything," Starsky asked. He sighed as Hutch nodded. "Okay, but I, uh, I still have a question for you."

"Fine."

"When did you go to the apartment? When did you really know about John and me?"

Hutch stared out the windshield, focusing his attention on a green city and mile advisory sign. They were twenty miles away from Duluth, which put them less than forty-five minutes away from their destination. Starsky couldn't have known it, but the answer to the question he was asking aligned directly with the last time he had set foot in the city of Esko.

Life consisted of choices, one right after another. Some they had made purposefully and others unconsciously, but every action had made led them to where they were meant to go. Their current reality was the culmination of every choice they made.

That night, Hutch had gone to the apartment Blaine had bought Starsky—he had made a choice and so had Starsky—and he had seen both their cars—Starsky's Camaro and Blaine unassuming sedan—parked in the driveway and he had finally known the truth. He had returned to their home, walked aimlessly on beach, watched the choppy waters and called his father for the last time.

This night was the beginning; it was what had led him to the Marcus Compound and eventually Fate. The hopelessness that had encased him that night, the all-enveloping sense of betrayal that had shattered his life and left him reeling had given birth to something beyond his control. Beginning in the pit of his stomach it traveled upward, embedding itself in every beat of his pounding heart and a brutal vindictive anger began to grow.

And in the end, not only had Hutch lost his father— that man who had instilled a deep-seeded fear of disclosing the truth and who had protected him at all costs—but, in a way, he had lost Starsky, too. The image of the man Hutch had thought he was had been shattered.

"Come on," Starsky urged. "Don't draw it out and don't say it doesn't matter because I know it does; for once, be direct and tell me the truth."

"It was two months before my father died."

Mouth agape, Starsky stared dumbly.

"Damn," he whispered eventually, rubbing his hands over his face. "I guess I should have…" He paused, his eyes glistening with sudden understanding.

Hutch knew he didn't have to say more. This was one disclosure that didn't require additional information—at least from him. Starsky had the pieces and could put them together. They had been at odds for months before Richard Hutchinson had died. Hutch had become distant, contentious and terse, and now Starsky finally knew why.

"I didn't realize the timing of it," Starsky said. "Although, I probably should have. That period of time was so _tense_. You were angry about something, I just didn't know what, and your dad died before we really got a chance to talk things through."

"You say that like it was ever an option," Hutch scoffed, shaking his head in frustration. "You know damn well that we've never been any good at talking shit through. That's the reason for Blaine and you, isn't it? You went to him because he was better at giving you what you needed then I ever was."

"That's not true."

"Then why did you do it?" Hutch demanded. _And why do you still have that fucking key?_ "Why did you hold on to him when you finally had me?"

Appraising Hutch sadly, Starsky's hands found the steering wheel and squeezed. "I knew it," he murmured, the words nearly inaudible. "I fucking knew it. When we talked about Blaine and me the first time, I knew you cared; I _knew_ this was a big deal. You said you didn't, but I knew the truth. It was a big deal then and it's big deal now."

"Why did it happen, Starsky?" Hutch asked. He didn't know how much he needed an answer until the question was out of his mouth. "If you wanted me, then why couldn't you let Blaine go?"

"I needed the option," Starsky admitted.

"Because of me? Because I wasn't enough for you."

"Christ, no!" Starsky exclaimed. "What I did, it didn't have anything to do with you. I did it because of me, and how I _chose_ to be back then."

"And you're not like that anymore?" Hutch whispered, his relentless gaze frozen on the apartment key dangling on Starsky's key ring. He wanted so badly to believe him, but he couldn't reconcile that damn key, and he couldn't forget Margaret Blaine's taunting words.

 _It'll never be over. David always comes running back. Years from now, when you finally summon the courage to see the truth, I wonder who you will be._

But when she had said it Maggie hadn't known that it didn't matter who Hutch would be someday. It couldn't because he didn't know who he was now.

"I'm not," Starsky vowed. "I swear to you that I'm not. I can't change what happened back then, all I can do is apologize and show you that I'm different. And _I am_ different. I promise I will never hurt you like that ever again." Tilting his head, his lips curled into a crooked smile. "Jesus, babe, you wouldn't believe the things I'm doing now because I want to be better than I was; I want to be strong, good to and for you."

"Like what kind of things?"

"I'm seeing Doctor Evans again. We have a once a week standing date; I talk and she listens."

Given the discovery of Starsky's Xanax prescription, this disclosure wasn't a surprise. "Was that Dobey's idea?" Hutch asked. "A requirement for you to return to his team?"

"No. It was my decision. Dobey doesn't know, not that he needs to, no one does. Well, except for you now. I didn't… I mean there was a time when I never would have thought that I'd go back and talk to her. I thought I was done with all that. But I needed someone to talk to, you know? I know it's hard for you; I know you're struggling to adjust to what things are like now; everything is so different than it was. Sometimes your silence is unnerving. I know you're struggling and I don't how to help you, not that you'll even let me try. You've been like a ghost lately, detached, discontent and distant since you woke up."

"You and Evans talk about me?" Hutch asked, slightly scandalized by the notion.

"Of course not."

"Then what do you talk about?"

"Me," Starsky said simply. "My mistakes, my issues."

Hutch nearly laughed. "Your issues, huh."

"I have my fair share. My mom is sick; she's schizophrenic, which I have a hunch isn't exactly news to you. When I was a kid I didn't understand her the way I think I do now. The things she said and did scared me; shit, they still do. Her sickness is hereditary; her DNA is in my body, swimming around in my mind and that's terrifying. Then there's my father. I loved him so much, and then, one day, he left for work and just… never came back. I hated him for leaving, for leaving _me."_

"You still do."

"I'd like to think that I don't, but I know I still do. Evans and I talk about that, and we talk about John, too. She thinks that…" Pausing, Starsky's face contorted in a nervous smile. "You're going to love this shit. She thinks that the reason that I needed Blaine, why I held on to him so long is because of my father. She thinks that my dad's death taught me to keep the people I really care about at a distance and to never become too comfortable and always have a backup plan. I liked Blaine because he was older than me and I knew that he would never change; he would always love me in the same way, at a distance."

"I don't love that at all."

"Me either, but it happened. It's a mistake that I have to live with for the rest of my life." Tilting his head, Starsky shrugged. "I never used to want to think about all of that. My whole life was all about the moment and when it passed I had no interest in considering how or why I made the choices that I did. I didn't look back because I couldn't. It was too painful. But now I realize that the only way you can change the future is by considering the past and learning from it. That's all I'm trying to do." Grasping Hutch's hand, he entwined their fingers and squeezed. "What are you trying to do?"

Holding Starsky's hand tightly, taking respite in the familiar touch, Hutch ignored scratches marring his husband's knuckles and the question. He couldn't begin to answer it honestly. What was he trying to do?

Inspired by a dream, he was on his way see his uncle for the first time in nearly thirty years. He wanted to see him, to look at him eye-to-eye, man-to-man; he wanted to watch his uncle's face contort with pain, to see the betrayal shining his eyes as he was impaled by the hunting knife; and he wanted to see remorse as he whispered a sputtering apology and exhaled his last breath. That was what he wanted—what he intended to do—but even Hutch had to admit his expectations were enormous. After all, maybe his uncle wasn't sorry for what he had done. Perhaps, remorse and responsibility weren't part of his uncle's moral purview.

 _What makes you different from him?_ A bothersome voice whispered in the depths of his mind. _You both committed crimes; you both enacted horrible events you can't take back and hurt those you love the most. What makes you different? What makes you the same?_

 _"You'_ _re a monster,_ _"_ Emily Hutchinson had spat, hours after Richard Hutchinson's body had finally been placed in the ground. The words were thick, vindictive and slurred.

Standing amongst the collection of townsfolk who had gathered in the Hutchinson home, surrounded by a handful of familiar faces, it had taken Hutch a moment to realize his mother's words were intended for him and when he did he was he quickly convinced that she had been waiting years to say what she had.

The statement was startling, horrendous, sharp and cutting.

 _"I'm not,"_ Hutch had objected, the words too quiet—too shocked— to be convincing.

 _"Oh, but you are. You are a liar; and you are a monster!"_

But surrounded by people at the reception following his father's burial, Hutch hadn't been a monster. Not then. Not yet.

"Hey," Starsky prompted. Extending his free hand, he grasped Hutch's shortly bearded chin and gently turned it until they were staring at each other once more.

Meeting Starsky's gaze, Hutch was grateful for the dark, tinted sunglasses covering his eyes, disguising the regretful tears he wanted to will away. He tired of crying and feeling hopelessly stuck in place. "I'm not a monster." He mumbled the words out of sheer frustration, giving the statement little thought.

Starsky smoothed thumb fondly across Hutch's cheek. "Who said you were?"

Hutch grimaced. His mother had first said the words, but eventually Starsky had too. There was a time when he had said them again and again. The statement hadn't been true when his mother had said it, but by the time Starsky summoned the courage to voice his fear, it had become irrefutable.

Was it still true?

"Talk to me, Hutch," Starsky urged. "I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere."

"I don't want to be like this."

"But you don't know how else to be, I know. You said that already. If you don't want to be how you are, then stop. You have the power to stop. You have a choice; you always have a choice. People can change. You know they can, but they have to want to. I want to. Do you?"

Hutch scoffed. _Stop; change your behavior, your choices and your mind._ It seemed so simple—too simple—and it was. He couldn't change himself any more than he could change his past or desires. He wanted his uncle dead—that couldn't be changed and, still, another bothersome detail remained.

Cleaning the pick-up, Starsky had found the contraband cigarettes and lighter. But what else had he found?

Though Hutch didn't want him to be privy to the presence of the hidden hunting knife, maybe he already was. And that thought gave birth to another. If the past couldn't be changed and if he remained so fixated on controlling the future, then what was the harm in engaging in the present? Of taking yet another opportunity that Starsky was so graciously giving to lessen the distance between them, to come clean and admit to recalling the events they were both privy to and come to some kind of understanding. Whether Starsky knew about the knife and his intentions or not that didn't change how Hutch felt now. And he felt better with Starsky next to him—an arm's length away in bed at night or paces during the day.

Maybe killing his uncle and having Starsky accompany him were not mutually exclusive; perhaps, Hutch could allow Starsky to understand his conflict, his pain and regret. Starsky didn't need to know the whole story—he had already said that himself—but maybe it was time to own to some things before it was too late—because, eventually, it would be too late, and he wanted—needed—to give Starsky some truth to hold on to when the time came. He needed to give him ample reason to hold on, because he, himself, had no intention of ever letting Starsky go. They belonged to each other—no matter how things had started, no matter how this trip would end.

"Starsky?"

"Yeah?"

"I never forgot about Simon Marcus or Fate. I remember everything."

The disclosure was impulsive, as impetuous and abrupt as his decision to leave Rosie and Al's home in the middle of the night. He expected Starsky to be shocked, hurt, angry, bitter and resentful over his need to hide the memories and pretend they didn't exist.

But Starsky wasn't any of those things.

Brows knitting sadly, he grasped Hutch's hand and squeezed it tightly. "I know. I've always known."

It was Hutch who was shocked.

"This really shouldn't be a surprise," Starsky soothed. "Baby, we've been dancing around this topic for weeks."

"I just thought..." Hutch paused, his voice too thick to say another word, not that he could come up with one. What had he thought? How had he justified concealing the truth? Regret, shame, and fear, had those been his sole motivations? Now that the information was out in the open he wasn't sure. It all felt so foolish.

"You were afraid to bring it up," Starsky said, his voice gentle and knowing. "That's okay. I was afraid too. For the record, I don't blame you for any of that shit. It was a perfect storm of secrets, lies, and half-truths. We both did things we shouldn't have; neither one of us were talking to the other about what was really going on, and we both needed learn to own up to the past."

"Now are you saying we're even?"

"Of course not. We can't think like that, not now. There is no even when it comes to love. It's give and take but there's no certain score. It wasn't any more your fault than it was mine. We both screwed up and shit went sideways, but that doesn't mean we have to live the rest of our lives paying for it. We have to acknowledge our mistakes, own up to and learn from them; we don't have to be hostages to all the things we wish we could take back."

Hutch wasn't so sure; his whole life felt composed of things, moments and events he wished he could take back. He couldn't erase everything; he wouldn't even try.

"Do you remember what you said to me the day you came back?" Starsky asked.

Shaking his head, Hutch hadn't a clue what Starsky was talking about—what he had said or why it would be brought up now. "In the hospital?" he asked. "When I woke up?" He didn't really remember that time; it was a convoluted mass of indecipherable days, blurred and distorted with confusion, numbness and pain. Had he said anything when finally waking from coma? He been capable of such a thing?

"No, before all that. After you were fired, you left and then you came back. Remember that day in front of Venice Place? You appeared out of nowhere and you said that it was all going to be okay. You promised. But it wasn't okay then, far from it, and some days I'm not sure it is now, but that's a promise I'm going to hold you to."

"That wasn't a promise," Hutch scoffed. "That was a lie."

"I don't believe that."

"You lied that day too, you know."

Looking at Starsky, taking in the bewilderment sparkling in his eyes, Hutch knew that he didn't know; either he was not susceptible to weight of the mistakes they had made or he simply wasn't interested in rehashing the past in order to make either of them feel guilt. Starsky wanted to admit their secrets, own up to the past, then dismiss it and begin again. He looked at the day Hutch woke up as their new beginning—a gift, an opportunity to make things right. But Hutch didn't know if he could do that. How could he move forward—began again—if each day still felt so influenced by past?

"You did," Hutch continued. He no longer cared how the words, soft and unaccusing, could be construed. How forcing Starsky to explain this moment was overtly exhibiting his own lie. He hadn't forgot; he remembered everything. "I left, disappeared, and you… _you_ ran to Blaine. You let him into our house. You let him take you to that apartment; you let him pretend and you pretended too. The only reason you were at Venice Place that day, the day I came back, was because you were really planning to leave…"

"Hutch, you were gone. Nobody thought you were coming back. And I was confused; shit, I was sick."

"…You went back to get your stuff. You were going to move out and into that apartment. You were going to be with Blaine for good."

"I was confused," Starsky repeated.

"And now you're not," Hutch scoffed. "I don't believe that. Because when I knew things, when I had that bitch crawling around in my brain, she allowed me to know so much more than I ever wanted to. You loved him, truly and deeply, and that _never_ changed. You will _always_ love him."

"He was married, Hutch."

"That didn't matter to you. He helped you professionally; he gave you everything you ever wanted, including that apartment. He was _everything_ to you. How does something like that change, Starsk? How could you love him so much and then suddenly stop. You don't."

"Yes, you do." Starsky looked sick, desperate to refute Hutch's claims but helpless to find the right words, because, after all, with Fate's help Hutch had known things. "Hutch—"

"Oh, you were good at first, I will give you that. When you showed up on my doorstep that night at the beach house you were sincere. You wanted me then and you had no intention of continuing things with Blaine, but over time that changed, because that night was only the beginning, and you didn't really know me as well as you thought. You didn't realize how weak I really was."

"Weakness has nothing to do with it," Starsky said. "You weren't weak; you were traumatized. There's a difference."

"You were good, at first," Hutch repeated firmly. "But my behavior, my lies and need to run, they all wore you down."

"That's not what happened."

"It is! You weren't getting what you needed from me, we both know that. No sense in denying it now. I know why you fucked Blaine." Lips curling into a snide smile, Hutch laughed humorlessly. "Oh, that's right, you never did fuck Blaine. He wasn't into that; he always had to be the one in control, and you liked that, too. Tell me why you liked that, Starsk. Tell me why you liked when he told you what to do."

Eyes wide, Starsky shook his head, pulled his hand from Hutch's and reached for the steering wheel. Clenching it tightly, he focused his haunted gaze out the windshield. "No," he said softly. "If you know fine, but don't make me repeat it. There's no point to this, Hutch."

"But there is," Hutch insisted.

If Starsky wanted to know the truth, if he wanted to talk about the past and move forward from it, he couldn't pick and choose what stayed hidden. If he wanted Hutch to own up to his most grievous mistakes then he was no longer allowed to protect his own.

"We both did things we shouldn't have," Hutch continued, fiercely repeating Starsky's words. "Neither one of us were talking to the other about what was really going on; we both need learn to own up to the past."

"Yeah, well, suddenly I'm not so sure that's what this conversation is."

"I'm just giving you what you want. I'm talking about the things you want me to."

"No. You're trying to get my attention. You don't want a calm, conductive, _adult_ conversation. You're scared; you're threatened and angry and you want to hold me responsible in the most vindictive way possible. You're trying to hurt both of us. You're trying to reinforce your own insecurities while adding fuel to your anxieties and fear; and you're trying to make me feel guilty, which let me tell you something, buddy, is going to be awfully hard because I already feel incredibly guilty about what I did and why."

"That's not what I'm doing," Hutch lied.

"It isn't?"

Starsky was angry now, his sparkling eyes no longer directed at the distant landscape rather focused on Hutch. Being the center of his husband's fury was both comforting and frightening. Comforting because the reaction was familiar; he no longer felt as though Starsky was stifling his replies for his benefit. And frightening because he was no longer sure he wanted to continue the conversation now that he could see Starsky's pain and regret so easily. What was the purpose of this conversation? What kind of outcome was striving for?

"I _know_ I wasn't good to you," Starsky continued. "I _know,_ given your past, how being privy to why I acted the way I did is bound to be incredibly painful for you. I know it matters, that it has _always_ mattered. But you want the truth, and if you are so intent on making me say it then I will. When we got together I ended things with Blaine, because I wanted you and only you. But over time that changed, because over time I began to realize how uncomfortable you really were."

"Uncomfortable," Hutch said. Even now, despite his frustration, Starsky was being kind. Likening Hutch's physical discomfort, his unwillingness to be touched, held, kissed and beyond, to simple discomfort was compassionate but superficial. It was too simple of an explanation.

"For the first year we were together you never initiated anything," Starsky said. His tone had shifted, losing its edge and becoming weighted with sadness. "Not a kiss, not anything more. And I thought: "Okay, he's new to this. He's used to being with women. I'm his first guy, so he's a little uncomfortable. He just needs time and he'll loosen up." And for a while I think I believed it. I _wanted_ to believe it. But then I started noticing all these things. They were little things, like how you always had to be a little drunk before we could do anything in bed, or how sometimes after you would pull yourself so far away from me it was like I couldn't reach you no matter what I did or said, or how occasionally you would flinch or look like you were about to cry, how sometimes midway you would just stop me altogether. There were all these little things, Hutch, that added up together formed a picture of a great big thing. I was so determined not to do the math that I just ignored them all."

"You knew," Hutch said, quietly filling in a piece of the story Starsky was omitting.

"Deep down, a part of me always knew that something bad had happened to you. I didn't know the specifics; I didn't know that it was as bad as it was, that what had happened to you had taken place when you were a kid. I think I just wanted to believe that maybe I wasn't your first guy. I wanted to think you had a bad relationship or a nasty one-night-stand that you didn't want to talk about. I had no intention of ever _making_ you talk about it."

"You thought that eventually I'd loosen up and begin to trust you and relax."

"And eventually you did."

"But you hadn't expected it to take years, and by then you had already begun sleeping with Blaine again. You went to him back to him for the sex. You liked the uncomplicated ease of having him touch you; you liked how he was so comfortable; how he didn't shy away or flitch. You liked sex with him because it felt more mutual than anything we ever did. I was uncomfortable, frigid and afraid and Blaine wasn't. He knew what he wanted. He was strong and certain and you needed someone who was going to hold you and take charge."

And just like that there it was, the truth Starsky hadn't wanted to say and what Hutch had forced him to divulge. It had neither been admitted the way Hutch had thought it would nor had it made him feel the way he thought it would. He didn't feel vindicated, apprehensive, or afraid. Oddly, he felt at peace, suddenly grateful that they were finally able to share the same truth.

"I'm sorry," Starsky whispered earnestly. "Hutch, I am _so_ sorry. None of that should have happened. I was with you; I should have _stayed_ with you. What kind of person does that? I knew something had happened; I knew that you were struggling with something that prevented you from being comfortable and instead of trying to talk to you about it I just left."

"You didn't leave; you stayed for the most part."

"Not where or when it counted. Yeah, I stood beside you in our life, but secretly I was laying down with Blaine."

"You stopped when I started to relax, though," Hutch said. Those had the fun days; while it had taken time for his fear and anxiety to ebb, it eventually had. He and Starsky had settled into a rhythm, and the foreign key in Starsky's wallet had disappeared. It had been so good before it had turned bad—before Simon Marcus and Fate had come along. "When I started not needing to pull away when you touched me, when I finally became comfortable you stopped seeking out Blaine."

He needed to soften the pain of the past. To somehow make it less influential than it had been allowed to become. Still, an unwelcome chill ran through his body as his wayward gaze settled on the key dangling from Starsky's keychain. Starsky had made a mistake—they both had made mistakes—but was he still making them?

"You did stop, right?" he asked. He couldn't bring himself to call attention to the key. He wasn't sure if it was from fear or something else. He was on his way to kill his uncle and if he succeeded Starsky would be left alone. He was lying about his intentions, the purpose of the trip to Esko. Did that allow Starsky some allowances with the truth too?

"Of course," Starsky said. "That was over a long time ago. I stopped sleeping with Blaine just before I moved in with you at the beach house, I told you that. And as for the time he and I spent together when you disappeared, sex wasn't really an option for me at that time, so it wasn't really about that."

"Is it an option now?"

Starsky's brow furrowed apprehensively. "For him or you?"

"What?"

He hadn't bothered the think about how the question could be construed. Of course he wasn't thinking of himself; he wouldn't dare press Starsky on such a sensitive subject for such self-serving purpose. And now that it had been said and interpreted how it had, he wanted nothing more than to retract it. There was fear in Starsky's eyes, a nervous tightness to his posture that Hutch was sure he hadn't seen his husband display in months—certainly not since he'd awoken from coma and not since Fate had been gone. His agitation was palpable, foreboding and familiar—not solely because he had seen Starsky present it before but because he was able to admit now what he couldn't admit prior to Fate or while under her spell. He was apathetic to Starsky's nervousness, his fear—the irrational agitation and hysteria attached to the very notion of being touched in a sexual manner—because they were feelings he was intimately aware of; Hutch had experienced them all before.

Though Starsky had once said, years ago in the greenhouse at Venice Place, that his recurring sexual assault in the dark bunker on the Marcus Compound was because Fate was showing him the truth that Hutch wouldn't dare tell him, it wasn't everything that she had done; it wasn't the only seeds she had sown in Starsky's subconscious. There were other correlations to be made between Starsky's extended recovery and Hutch's own. Fate had entwined their distant, respective meltdowns regarding what had actually occurred between them in the apartment above The Pits; there were seventy-two hour psychiatric holds at hospitals which mirrored one another, despite taking place nearly thirty years apart; and there were identical nightmares, dread and anxieties, and the lingering ever-present need to be perceived as strong. Though years and miles apart, the traumas they had endured had mirrored each other and so had the aftereffects each had been forced to endure.

Hutch wondered how many of the correlations—if any—Starsky had connected. If he realized the full picture of what Fate had done—how she had deliberately fractured them then and all the ways the residual fallout of her actions were still fracturing them now. Though Starsky said that he forgave everything, Hutch didn't know how he possibly could, because looking at Starsky—absorbing his expression and body language—Hutch knew how much of his husband's demeanor was a facade. Starsky was pretending to be strong in hope that the fact could be accepted by others and that someday he could come to believe it himself.

"Getting physical with Blaine isn't an option," Starsky said finally, his expression changing, settling into neutral mask.

"And for me?" Hutch whispered, his breath catching in his constricting throat. He was sure he didn't want an answer because he was certain he already knew what it would be. But something had implored him to ask.

The question hung in the silence between them as Lucky began to stir in the backseat. Emitting a disgruntled groan, he settled his head on the back of the console between the twin front seats. The Dalmatian was growing impatient with their lack of movement. They had been stuck in place, indefinitely paused on the side of the road for far too long. Extending his arm and resting his palm on the top of the dog's head, Starsky didn't answer the inquiry. His focus had shifted to appeasing their disgruntled dog.

Stomach churning sickly, Hutch had to stop himself from pressing for a reply or dismissing the question. Starsky's silence was an answer; it just wasn't one he preferred to have.

TBC


End file.
